It's never twins
by I'm Nova
Summary: Alternate season 3, Mary doesn't exist. For a case, the boys must pretend to be a couple and - succesfully! - go through couple therapy. For cover reasons, they're also sleeping together...in the same bed, that is. For H.I.A.T.U.S.' prompt "bedsharing".
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I obviously don't own a single thing. A.N. This story is set in Alternate s3 timeline where Mary never existed. For H. I. A. T. U. S.' prompt of this month, "bedsharing'. I promise there'll be more of that in the next chapters, and more pleasant. Hope you enjoy!_

It's never twins

"I need you to be my husband for a bit," Sherlock announces when John gets back from work one evening.

It shows how used to insanity the doctor is that he doesn't worry that the sleuth might have finally deduced his feelings and is mocking them. Truly, he doesn't bat an eye, beyond asking, "Do we actually need to get married or can we just pretend to?"

"We can pretend, nobody's going to check too closely. You see, there's a couples therapist in Bristol who's having a rather embarrassing problem…the clients he's had the most success with are disappearing just before they would be free to get home. Not good advertising, as you'd imagine," the sleuth explains casually.

"No, I would assume not," John agrees, chuckling. "So we're to pose as clients? Sure."

"I was actually hoping we could bait the killer, in case it should be less than obvious," the detective points out, looking back to whatever he's cutting (his flatmate bets it's not for dinner).

His blogger actually chokes a little at that. "Not that I have anything against the plan on principle, but… successful therapy? Us? Even as a pretence, do you think we can pull it off?" he queries, shifting the weight of his body between legs.

"Not us. Steven and Jack Wells-Hemlock. I promise that after I'll be done with you, not even your mum will recognise you," Sherlock assures (him), looking up.

"So… do I get to have dinner or do we need to leave immediately?" John queries, resigned to his fate.

"How about we take care of dyeing our hair first and then you can have your dinner while the colour sets in? We're booked for a session tomorrow morning, so we need to go tonight," the sleuth proposes, setting down his knife.

"Dyeing? Can't we just…you know…maybe a wig?" the doctor proposes, shrugging.

The consulting detective's sniff makes very clear how outrageous he finds that idea. "A wig? These things are dastardly uncomfortable, John! Besides, if we need to run after someone, we can't lose time for you to put it on properly…imagine if it slipped. Instead, people change their hairstyles daily. I promise it won't be anything too outrageous. You won't be forced to dye it back to go back to the clinic after the case without fearing people would laugh at you," he declares, ushering him with a gentle hand towards the bathroom.

John doesn't resist at all, knowing better than to try to hinder his friend during a case. He just hopes that Sherlock is right about not giving him some outlandish colour. Then again, the man's style – in public – is even more sophisticated than his. He doubts that the posh boy would advocate green hair for him.

In the end, John finds himself with an auburn head of hair, which is not so bad. They have a quick dinner as promised. Apparently, Sherlock sneakily ordered at Angelo's before, perhaps wanting to spoil the both of them, and a quick reheating is enough for the meal to be delicious. Then, there's another disguising session before they can leave.

Judiciously applied make up and non prescription glasses are enough to make John look twice into the mirror…but when Sherlock (no, Steven, better get used to the new name) is done, his jaw hits the floor. Who is this platinum straight-haired dude, and what did he do with his flatmate? Heck, even his cheekbones seem diminished…which is a damn shame, if you ask him. The painted-on jeans more than make up for the loss, though.

"Good thing that we're supposed to be married, or you'd have to beat suitors away with a stick. Actually, since we're supposed to be going through a bit of a marital breakdown, you still might," the doctor remarks before he's realised what he's saying.

"We're working on it, remember. And it's supposed to be a successful therapy. Certainly no room for strangers to woo any of us, so don't think you'll be able to pull. The work comes first," the sleuth snaps, with more bite to his words than would be perhaps warranted.

"Don't worry, I'm able to keep it in my pants," John assures, vaguely offended. During a case he, too, is concentrated on keeping the both of them alive despite his friend's recklessness, and the only flirting he's done was at the consulting detective's behest.

A loud snort implies that the detective's trust in him is less than deep, and frankly, he finds that insulting. "If you don't believe I can be convincing, why don't you find someone else to be your partner? I understand not wanting to put, say, Molly in the position of being bait," he huffs, though personally he suspects that the pathologist wouldn't mind if it came with…side perks, "but, say, Donovan is a policewoman. She should be able to hold her own, and the both of you might benefit from some therapy, too."

It's a jibe, but Sherlock's horrified stare means that he didn't see it as a joking proposal. "We're supposed to be able to pretend to like each other…eventually at least," he remarks, "but if you truly don't want to, I can of course find a substitute. Maybe Mycroft will lend me one of his minions."

"Hey, I didn't say I don't want to. But if you think I'm not up to it. I'm not going to ruin your case," John retorts, shrugging.

"Don't be an idiot, John," the sleuth huffs, "I wouldn't have asked you if I thought you'd be a liability. Obviously."

"I'm going to pack, then. I'll be ready in ten," his blogger assures, mollified.

Of course he's true to his word – John is certainly always ready for an adventure, much to Sherlock's satisfaction – and they get in the car the detective has rented. They pass the trip examining and reviewing their supposed background. The former army captain is allowed to keep his own (it certainly will make for interesting conversation) but his friend can't. What with being the only consulting detective in the world. To his utmost disgust, the closest he can come is to claim Anderson's job. Forensics.

Of course, he could pretend to be anything at all…actor, chemist, professor or barista… But the truth is, he wants to take advantage of the occasion to really work on their relationship. God knows he's afraid that someday John will get fed up with him and leave. This way, the doctor can keep most of his complaints, without having to imagine new ones on the spot.

They spend most of the time discussing not their relationship's flaws, but its background. John seems to be the most stubborn about it. "Even if you deleted our marriage anniversary, or something, we need to be able to answer things like 'who wooed whom' or 'where did you have your first date' and a number of other trifles. If this relationship is supposed to be worth working on at least," he declares.

Frankly, Sherlock has no qualms about detailing the way they fell in love. And it's almost scary how small are the adjustments they need to make for a wonderful relationship to be woven in their story. If only this…if only that…If only John wasn't so loudly straight, the detective can't keep but internally sigh. Of course, eyes on the road, he can't read his companion's equal wistfulness ('If only he wasn't asexual. Transport, really?').

They detail everything. The first date at Angelo's (obviously). Christmas traditions: one year at the Holmes' cottage, the following one with Harry, living in the hope they can have a big reunion and she'll not be likely to get black-out and snipe at everyone. New Year ones (at home, on the roof, kissing under the fireworks). That time Sherlock brought him purple hyacinths (because in the language of flowers they mean 'sorry') only to discover John is violently allergic to them – and yep, John really is, just in case the detective should get in his head to experiment with them.

It does feel good to pretend, and neither will admit that they have such an easy time of it because it's happened dozens of times, in their bedrooms, going over the day and imagining how easy it would have been to kiss the other, if only they'd dared…

Finally they get to Bristol, and check into their hotel. A simple place – not splurging on Mycroft's credit card, then, not that John truly minds - family run. There's a cosy feel to it that the doctor likes, and they're accompanied to their room by a very friendly young woman. For some reason, Sherlock's surlily glaring at her.

The room has the same warm feeling than the rest of the place, but a detail jumps to John's attention: the singular queen bed, with its soft-looking plaid quilt. "I thought it'd be twin beds!" he blurts out, turning towards his partner. Method acting is a thing, he went with the dye and everything…but this?

The woman blushes, and mumbles, "I was sure that you'd actually asked for…"

She can never say what, because Sherlock, as the diva he is, steals the scene. While she justifies herself, his lower lips trembles and pouts, then he bites it cruelly, and finally – eyes full of unspent tears, blinking furiously, he wails, "You said you wanted to try!"

"I'm…sorry?" the doctor tries, blushing furiously.

"I know we're having a rough patch now, but we were supposed to work on it! You agreed! You said, we'll make it out of this. And you can't even stand to be in the same bed? Not yet?" the sleuth recriminates, sniffling. "Do you love me at all?"

"Christ, love, I'm sorry! Of course I love you. this is fine, of course it is. It's perfect. I was worrying for you. You know how I snore," John replies, trying his best to remedy to the tragedy he's caused.

"You're cute when you snore," the detective quips, with a tremulous smile.

"Then…if it's okay, I'll leave you to get settled," a deeply uncomfortable reception lady interjects, receiving a quick thanks from the doctor and a regal gesture of dismissal from his partner.

As soon as their witness is gone, every trace of distress is gone from Sherlock. His blogger almost gets mental whiplash – he'll never get used to the man's acting prowess – and sighs deeply. Was this really necessary?

"Seriously, John, I know I didn't warn you about this, but we're supposed to be married. I thought it was obvious. Do you really need to have a heterosexual panic attack when something that might be misconstrued as implying a relationship between us happens?" the sleuth huffed, glaring without too much heat.

"I wasn't having a panic attack!" John retorts, flailing a bit. "Much less a heterosexual one. I just…didn't expect to have to pretend _all the time_ , you know."

"Well, if we eventually manage to lure our murder, he'll be rather surprised by our marriage finally going swimmingly but us still sleeping in separate beds, much less rooms. Seriously, John, I know you have a decent brain, use it every now and then," Sherlock remarks, sounding beyond weary of the whole situation. "Besides, you know me. I don't sleep on a case. You can happily have the bed to yourself and stop fretting."

"I'll fret more if you don't sleep, you know that," the doctor points out quietly, "besides, technically speaking the case starts tomorrow, and you should get all the sleep you can. It's really not good for your brain, no matter what you think."

"Are you sure?" the sleuth inquires, raising an eyebrow.

"Very sure. So…uh…do you want the right or the left side?" John blabbers, nodding towards the bed.

"I'll take the right, if that's fine for you," the detective declares, shrugging.

John nods gratefully – he's closer to the ensuite bathroom, and he knows there's a chance his nightmares will chase him there in the middle of the night, to wash away visions of blood and death. He'll never be entirely sure if this is Sherlock's actual preference or if his friend is quietly being considerate. "You can have first shower," he offers. It's not different than what they do at home, not much – but why does he feel on eggshells long before they'll actually have to share the bed? If this is how it is now, he'll go mad by the end of the case.

Sherlock makes a point to be quick – frankly, he wants to be back in the room with his friend and lifelong (or so it feels) love. Which is why he enters the bedroom in a bathrobe, still barely dry, droplets clinging to his skin.

John's jaw falls, and he's unabashedly staring, mouth dry as the desert. "I thought…you do sleep in pyjamas, don't you?" he half-groans.

The sleuth shrugs. "I do, but the humidity in the bathroom will make my hair unmanageable if I dillydally in there…I didn't think that you would have any problems with me changing here. You are an army doctor. Both qualifications should have inured you to other men dressing and undressing around you," he says airily. It's not that he wants to show his body off – but his companion's look make him flush more than the recent shower's warmth.

"I _am_ used to that," John snaps, "I'm not some sort of blushing maiden!" Not as used to having someone undress whom he'd give anything to be able to push down on this soft bed and ravish, maybe. But he can survive this. He has to, if he wants to not be banished from Baker Street on their return.

The detective only raises an eyebrow at him, wondering why he's even talking then. He keeps rubbing himself dry, slowly, actually grateful when his blogger can't sustain eye contact any longer after a few seconds. For all that he has hopes for this case (unvoiced, of course) he's not sure how he would react if John _did_ jump him now.

Instead, his bloggers scuttles to the bathroom himself, careful to get his pyjamas before closing the flimsy door behind himself. Oh Christ. What is he supposed to do with the man? It's bad enough that they're supposed to sham being in a relationship…and work on it.

He has never been comfortable sharing, thank you very much, so how is he expected to grouse at a client – a stranger – about why they are the most dysfunctional, codependent couple ever to exist?...Or should he just grouse about the sock index? He's never been good at coming up with excuses, so inventing whole new flaws for Sherlock seems like a risky business, besides being rather pointless. It's not like his…friend (he's your _friend_ , John!) lacks reasons for him to complain about.

All his worry hasn't managed to push the ethereal vision awaiting him in the other room…in _their_ bed. He scolds himself (somehow, his mental rant ends up being in Sholto's voice, and that doesn't help): they can share, it's big enough, no worries, and God knows the sleuth needs the sleep, stop being a wuss, Watson. Still, there's no way he can go back there unless he…takes care of – well – a slight (fine, not slight at all) problem that has…arisen.

It's not like it'll be the first time he'll do it in the shower, and at home, the bathroom is adjacent to the detective's room all the same. Whether he realised or not – the blogger dreads that there's simply no hiding from the world's only consulting detective – his friend has never mentioned his activities (thank God), so why would it be different here?

He's been here too long, having his own private mental breakdown, there's a chance that Sherlock will ask if anything's wrong if he hides much longer, despite his well-known love of long baths. Giving in to what seems inevitable, he quickly – and quietly, at least their flat's layout ensured he's trained not to be loud…and especially not to call anyone's name during climax – pulls on his cock, until he can wash away the evidence and, hopefully, the guilt.

John rubs himself dry with energy – anger, truly, – wears his second best pyjamas, with the white and sky-blue strips, allows himself a steeling deep breath and goes back to the bedroom. His flatmate is already snuggled under the covers, thank God, turned away from him and typing something on his phone.

The blogger doesn't wait for permission, just slips in his half of the bed, getting to sleep in a log position (on his side, legs straight and arms along his side) to minimise the area he occupies and, hence, the chance of contact. It's not how he's used to sleep, but he surely can tolerate it for a few nights, can't he?

Almost to his surprise – he mildly expected Sherlock to go on with whatever he's busy with, possibly for half the night – the detective immediately shuts down his mobile phone, putting it on his bedside table, and murmurs a soft, "Goodnight, John," turning to him before turning off the light.

In the dark, there's a bit of shuffling, before – from what he can understand – the sleuth finds a comfortable position (on his stomach). John carefully breathes in and out, listening to the just as soft breaths of his companion. Hopefully that'll eventually relax him enough to be able to fall asleep.

 _P.S. Bloopers from this chapter's first draft. I was channeling Sherlock's point of view too hard and accidentally wrote, "Sherlock makes a point to be quick – frankly, he wants to be back in his friend and lifelong (or so it feels) love." XD_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own any of this._

The morning after, John unsurprisingly wakes up first – but very shockingly, he finds himself spooning the detective. He doesn't usually move in his sleep, but it appears he must have this time, because instinctively rolling away, he doesn't fall out of the bed as he would otherwise have.

He finds himself immediately missing his companion's warmth and…more, but there's simply no choice. Normal physiological reactions he's very much not immune to (aka morning wood, or - as his panicked brain trying to calm himself down by blabbering medical terms insists - penile tumescence), as ordinary as they are, are not acceptable in company. Not unless everyone is on board with it. The blogger thanks his luck that he woke before he started rutting against the deliciously firm body against his. They might be faking marriage, but there are limits, surely.

He quietly slips out of bed and tiptoes to the shower, glad that the army yelled tidiness into him, so that he can take the few things he needs without turning on the light. The room isn't too cluttered by furniture, so that he isn't in danger of stumbling over chairs or chest of drawers.

When he finally closes the door behind him and gets in the shower, he finally can panic in peace. And rub one off, because it never be said that he isn't good at multitasking. Fine, the orgasm takes precedence over anything else, with the feel of Sherlock against him still alight in his nerves. But he does shower, and – as soon as he can think – scolds himself harshly for the near-disaster (and why has he moved tonight of all nights?).

When he's done – a thorough wash and several deep breaths later – he goes back to the bedroom…and almost jumps to the ceiling when his companion drawls a still sleepy, "Good morning."

"I hoped that I'd been quiet enough not to wake you," he replies, feeling instantly guilty. As if masturbating to thoughts of his friend wasn't bad enough – he's woken the insomniac. Way to start the day.

"It was cold," the sleuth complains. Which, considering that the bed is well-equipped with covers, under which the man is entirely buried, and that – John can testify – his friend is wearing pyjamas, sounds like bullshit. But sure. It's not like the blogger is going to call him out on it.

"Go back to sleep," John urges, fully intending to leave the room in search of sustenance.

"Come back to bed," the detective retorts, "I know that we're supposedly having troubles, but you not being able to stand to be in the room with me, beyond the barest hours of sleep, would speak of a deeper crisis than I'd like to project – and one much more likely to end in divorce."

"Uhm…where did you get this? Because sometimes people just have different schedules, and it doesn't mean they hate each other's guts, you know," the doctor says, undressing to his pants and getting back to the bed anyway, because denying Sherlock anything has always been difficult for him.

"Yes, but you don't need to get to work. The only scheduled activity here is our therapy session…and that's a shared one," the consulting detective points out. He sighs and adds, "Fine…maybe I formed my idea of a happy couple's life from my parents. But doesn't everyone?"

"Of course. I admit my parents weren't the best of models…which might be why I consider each one doing their own thing, with as little contact as possible, the ideal option. I'm sorry about that. I'll try to be a better actor, and not upset you needlessly. That's the point of this case, isn't it?" John admits.

Maybe 'giving – and requesting – as much space as possible' (for cases of course, but not necessarily – it was a habit of his long before he met the detective) isn't the best conduit when one wants lasting relationships. A bit of space, sure. Practically a highway – well, before they complained of having to compete with Sherlock, many of his girlfriend would grouse that study or sport or something else was his priority, instead of them. It was just easier to dismiss them as 'not understanding' when so many people considered these activities as reasonable commitments, unlike running after a reckless flatmate. Oh great. He's psychoanalysing himself even before he gets at the shrink.

His serious course of thought is brusquely interrupted when his bed companion huffs discontentedly at the empty space between them, and rolls against him. The blogger doesn't try to get away, mostly because he would tumble on the floor if he did, but exhales in a rush, shocked.

"I said I was cold," Sherlock complains, never mind that the long feet pressed against the other's ankles belie his words. Oh well. If the man wants a longer cuddle, for whatever reason (method acting, maybe?) the doctor is not going to be the one to protest.

It might feel awkward, but it is so very pleasant, too…and soon any lingering tension leaves his body once again. So much so, that John's arm slips, and accidentally encircles the other's stomach.

At the sleuth's instinctive, sharp drawing of breath, his blogger moves it back, but before he can go back to 'proper' posture, a hand comes to grip his arm and put it back. "It's okay," Sherlock whispers, "I didn't expect it now…but I do need data on you. Things I would know if we were truly married."

"Fine. Just let me know when you're tired of it, will you?" John queries, just as softly. So it *is* for the sake of their pretence. He can't help the wave of disappointment, even if there was no other possible reason.

"Of course, now quiet. Don't distract me," the detective huffs.

His blogger does…after allowing himself just a second to chuckle. Sherlock might behave like a git, but he's rather adorable when he becomes all commanding about apparent nonsense, not that the doctor could ever tell him that. Ostensibly it is a mind palace thing, and it's rather flattering that – even for a day, and just for a case – he would be deemed worthy of his 'personal data' being kept inside his friend's brilliant brain. Quite a difference from when his very presence is a forgettable detail.

It takes two hours for the consulting detective to be satisfied with his archiving – or perhaps it's John's stomach that disturbs him with a gurgle, not used to having to wait that long to be fed upon waking. With an awkward laugh from John, and an embarrassed apology from Sherlock, they finally get up and go in search of food, after the sleuth gets ready lightning-quick to go out.

The hotel employee smiles at them, and – at John's request – suggests a nice, cosy café for them to have breakfast. The detective deduces that it's run by the employee's sister, but John decides to give it a chance all the same, and he isn't disappointed. "You don't have to assume the worst every time, love," he says, biting with relish into a chocolate croissant. The endearment slips out of his mouth without him even noticing.

"I'm not sure if you're trying to lecture me or curry favour, with your random blandishment. It's confusing," the sleuth replies, frowning.

"Or maybe I am just speaking my mind, without calculating my words for either effect. I'm just an idiot, you know. I know I have no right to lecture anyone – it doesn't mean I can't make suggestions. And I don't need to 'curry favour', Sherlock. You agreed to marry me. I'm assuming you're already biased in my favour, no matter how annoyed you are with me some days – or even most of them," John retorts, with a cheeky smile. "All I hope is that you might enjoy yourself, without overthinking things. I just want you to – you know – be happy," he continues softly.

"Really, John?" Sherlock queries, in earnest. It's so confusing seeing him, hearing him, and having to remind himself every few minutes that this is a play. They're acting, and nothing – nothing at all – will be sincere until they are back to Baker Street. Never mind that he wishes they could work through some honest issues. He'll have to manipulate his way to that – if he can.

"Of course, love," his blogger assures, the endearment intentional this time. He can use the shield of the case to say all the truths he's ever felt, and blame it on the need of not compromising the investigation. Their hotel is close to the therapist's office, and if the killer keeps track of the goings on there, they could very well be in the area. If they blow their cover story before even starting, that would be too humiliating. "I really want to do things right this time. I'm sorry if we've had our misunderstandings, but we're here to stop that, aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are. Thanks for agreeing to that. I know I come across the wrong way…well, practically always – no idea how you didn't flee the very first day you met me, honestly – that's why I thought we needed help. I don't want to lose you, Jaw –," the sleuth's slip up is cleverly interrupted by his partner feeding him a dollop of whipped cream with the tip of his finger. He's made a mistake. He never makes a mistake. What is happening to him? His plan of being honest while pretending to lie is backfiring splendidly before the Work even started.

"If you do, you could stop teasing me about being afraid of sharks during our honeymoon," John quips kindly.

Oh. Brilliant save. Brilliant. Just one more reason to love this man.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Still not owning a thing. A.N. I know, no bedsharing this chapter, but some things are discussed, and I hope the next one will be interesting!_

It's finally time for their first appointment. Sherlock is a fidgety wreck of a man, though John would bet that's to have the excuse to touch everything and shift his eyes all around, amassing all the clues that are there, and even seeing what should be here and instead is lacking. As for him, as always – both on a case and when he's uncomfortable, which is just perfect – he reverts to army training, posture flawless but ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

Since the detective is not yelling loudly that it's obviously the secretary, because of her nail polish, or something just as outrageous, they'll need to go through with this – and be bait. Which means having therapy, and Ella can testify that he's the worst at it. He asked his partner before if they could just ask doctor Reese to write them up as the most collaborative, successful pair he ever had...only to be told that, while the therapist is aware that they'll be working on his case, he's not aware of the details.

"It'd be useless to go through all this trouble to be undercover if he's likely to betray our identity by looking too much forward to our meetings or some similar idiocy. If I've learned anything in my career it is that clients are always idiots – or they would have solved their problem on their own in the first place," the sleuth retorted, looking as if he'd just bundled John in the idiot department too.

John holds onto this annoyance, however tiny in the usual Sherlock scale. It seems like a good starting point for a session. He'll have to say something, after all, he's afraid. When they're finally sent in, he sits properly – fine, maybe rigidly – on the sofa they're offered. His partner, instead, gives it a look of distaste before sitting on the armrest opposite the side John picked and crossing his legs.

"Drama queen," John mumbles under his breath. He wouldn't even mention these kind of antics usually. Having a cover that allows him to blurt out all the small frustrations, instead of letting them build up until he's forced to take a walk not to attack Sherlock physically is actually a very welcome change.

"Is something the matter, Jack? Feel free to speak up – you're here to learn how to communicate best with your partner. This is key for any successful relationship, you know: sharing is the first step to a healthy bond," doctor Reese urges gently.

Both of his patients roll their eyes in synchrony. It's not that there's anything wrong with what the man is saying. It's just that with such platitudes, it's a wonder he has any successful couples worthy of becoming victims.

"Never mind – I knew that when I fell in love with the bloke, so I signed up for it," John replies, because as much as he likes being allowed to grumble, facing all his complaints is not something that he would ever do willingly. As much as he's supposed to be cooperative, surely some hang-ups in the first session will only make it more believable?

"That is Jack-speak for 'even I know that I am saying stupid things', in case it isn't obvious," Sherlock intervenes.

"Steve, putting down people's feelings without even listening is unwise," doctor Reese mentions kindly.

"Why should I listen when it's always the same old illogical whining?" 'Steve' replies, shrugging. "I'm far from perfect, but maybe my worst defect is lack of patience. If something makes sense, I'll happily listen, but you certainly don't need to tell me more than once. If it's stupid, spare me and the world one more utterance of nonsense."

"Careful, doctor, he admitted to having a flaw. If you have a nuclear bunker, I definitely suggest holing up in there," John quips, with a half-smile.

"You'll forgive me if I go home as usual today, Jack," their therapist answers, with a smile of his own. "Besides, if we get Steve to admit his own flaws it's a very important first step. How can we work on them otherwise? That's what I hope for from the both of you, actually."

"Oh, he does occasionally admit to flaws – just the flattering ones. The actual things he does that would make anyone consider sectioning him, he'll let you discover on your own. And despite that, I still love the madman," John explains. "As for me… I am here to become better. I really am. But is there any need for me to vocalise them, when Steve is always ready to do that for me? We wouldn't want to bore his highness, after all."

"I'm really worried, now, Jack. That's the right title for my brother. It would break my heart if you picked him," Sherlock cuts in, lips trembling. His partner's only reaction is another very expressive eye roll.

Doctor Reese takes his glasses off and massages the root of his nose for a moment. He's used to people sniping at each other, of course. But usually when they do, the affection is buried deep, and it's his job to dig it out, make them remember why they chose each other in the first place. These two idiots are obviously so smitten, they should still be in the honeymoon phase. Why are they even here?

"Let's not jump to conclusions here, Steven. Has Jack done anything – anything at all – to give you reason to suspect he might be interested in your brother? You say you hate illogical speeches, so I must presume you have evidence. Otherwise, wouldn't that be a bit hypocritical of you?" he asks then, putting them back on. He needs to be able to clearly see the interaction.

"What the hell? I've never!" John yells, before the sleuth can answer. They talked about so many things – if he was supposed to be this philanderer scum, why wouldn't Sherlock warn him? And honestly, with his brother? Even if he was the type to betray a loved one, he wants to believe he'd have some standards. He needs to give himself this much credit, at least.

Ignoring his outburst, Sherlock hisses, "And you think I don't hate myself for these ridiculous, unreasonable _feelings_?" The last word is pronounced the way other might say 'puke'. "No, he didn't give me a reason to fear. But he hasn't given me a reason _not_ to fear, either. I mean, yes, our interests are compatible, but how long can that last? And Mikey has always been the better, less annoying, more giving, even smarter version of me. How long until he realises that, doctor? Do you want to take a bet?"

The blond seems to be unable to even draw breath, gaping and inhaling shallowly when faced with such an accusation. The doctor observes him sharply, rather than engaging with the obviously upset man. 'Jack' stretches a hand towards his partner, before letting it fall, defeated. "I didn't give you a reason not to? What about loving you? Or fucking marrying you?" he says, in a low voice, angry and frustrated.

Sherlock lowered his eyes, looking properly chastened, and for once didn't reply. A few seconds later, he threw his partner a side glance. He was playing with his thumbs, as if he didn't know what to do with them.

Ah-ah. Maybe he'd got to the crux of the problem. "I see your point of view, Jack, obviously. You've demonstrated your love in all the proper ways. All the ways you thought about. But there are so many ways of showing one's love, and some of both of your body language makes me wonder if you do prove it enough… physically. Is absence of touch the first thing you do as long as you're annoyed with each other, for any reason? Some people might not mind that too much, but others react badly," the therapist wondered aloud.

"Well, I don't know…maybe. It's not like I do it consciously. When I get past boiling point I usually go for a walk, rather than exploding… I was a soldier. If my control cracks I could seriously hurt him, and that'd kill me. But do I start before? I honestly haven't noticed. I mean, it's not like I do that on purpose, if I ever do it. And anyway, Mr. "My body is just transport and all its needs are too boring to bother with" should be only too happy about it," John rambled, not even noticing he was repeating himself.

"My body is just transport?" doctor Reese echoed, curious.

"That'd be me. What I am – what I couldn't imagine myself without – is my brain. The body is…a convenient attachment, I suppose. As a brain in a box I would need much more assistance to work," the detective confirmed, shrugging.

"Do you really believe that? Both of you?" a flabbergasted therapist asked, receiving identical sharp nods. He sighed. "I want to have a serious talk with all your parents about reading fables to their kids at the moment. And generally not making you read enough. Ever heard the idiom 'sour grapes'? Or know where it's from?"

"Have you ever heard, doctor. One'd think that for someone lecturing on literature, even for children, you'd at least observe proper grammar," the sleuth retorted snappishly.

John, instead, had seen the doctor's point. "Do you mean that he's so loud about not caring about his body and being downright annoyed by its very existence because he has never got enough attention towards it?" he asked, widening his eyes.

"It's a serious possibility to consider," doctor Reese agreed.

"So…you're not demisexual? Or very, very grey towards A? Or something?" the blogger asked, loving the chance to inquire openly under the cover of therapy.

"Don't you think these questions should be asked in a different environment?" Sherlock replied, blushing deeply.

"If you would prefer, Steve, certainly. I'll see you tomorrow, and I expect you to have discussed your reciprocal desires and expectation from this relationship, about the physical demonstration of affection. Do you feel like you can do it?" doctor Reese intervened, raising his hands in a calming gesture.

"If we have to," Sherlock huffed, standing up.

"Certainly," John agreed, instinctively following his partner but sounding much keener.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: still nothing mine, of course. Sorry about the lateness, but a heat wave named Lucifer burned my brain cells out._

Their next session with the therapist was the following day at the same hour, so for the rest of the day they just played tourist. If they were to actually have the discussion about the physical side of their relationship, they certainly weren't tackling it until the last possible moment…and with as much privacy as possible.

Would they, even? There was technically no need. Sherlock could give him a sentence or two of guidelines to stick to for the next day. Generally, sheer embarrassment would make John want to speak about anything at all but any friend's sexual interests. It was one thing to cheer up a mate about scoring with a girl. But a serious conversation about one's expectations and physical yearnings? He hadn't picked psychiatry for a reason. He wasn't comfortable with it. Such things were _personal_.

Which was why he would never be able to admit that he _wanted_ to have the prescribed conversation with Sherlock. That he'd wondered about his flatmate's orientation since the first day. That…well, not that he wanted to know what Sherlock was into, if anything at all, but something disturbingly close to it. Especially because…something _could_ move him? Bodily, that is. Or was this all another front, part of the cover? John hated having such close personas; it muddled everything.

Still, John was afraid of the possible revelations to come. What if Sherlock admitted that he had wanted Irene, back then? It would make sense, given the data his blogger knew. Now, far it be from the doctor to kinkshame.

He'd seen – and participated in – enough things that he wouldn't bat an eyelid if his friend admitted to having amorous leanings toward the milk bottles. That might actually explain why they disappeared so quickly, besides their contents being used as a growing medium for whatever mould or bacteria his flatmate was interested in at the moment.

So why did the Irene option sting to even think of? No, he had to stop thinking of that, the consulting detective would read his mind and the results would become awkward even earlier than they were supposed to be. He should just enjoy the moment. The good food, the beautiful priory, the way the sun played with his partner's eyes…. Gosh no, stop John…

Or shouldn't he? Could it be passed off as acting, if he stared just a bit longer, openly entranced? They were supposed to be married after all. Frustrated with each other, sure. Sometimes wanting to strangle one's partner, par for the course. That would need no acting at all. But since they wanted to work on it, and they had no children or anyone else to do this for, it was fine to paint their couple as wanting each other still, every now and then at least?

John's conflicting feelings couldn't stop time, as much as he would have liked it, and in the evening they were back in their bedroom. "So…what are we going to tell doctor Reese tomorrow?" he asked awkwardly, after the detective had ensconced himself in bed without a word on the subject. He was giving Sherlock the chance to just teach him a version of their tale, but he needed to know how to behave.

"I thought we could have this conversation once you joined me here," the consulting detective retorted, raising an eyebrow. "We're supposed to make this work. Less chance of one of us running away from the confrontation this way."

"Do you expect one of us to want to?" his blogger replied. This wasn't reassuring at all.

"Possibly both," the detective admitted with a shrug.

That ripped a chuckle from John. "Oh well, good to know. Then I'll just go get ready, so I'll be less tempted to find myself on a train for London in half an hour."

He acted quickly, and soon he was in bed, trying to control the mix of eagerness and fear for this conversation. If he didn't look at Sherlock, but straight ahead, when he asked, "So?" ... Well, that was reasonable, wasn't it?

"What do you want to know?" the sleuth asked, still stalling for time.

"Everything," the doctor said impulsively, before adding hastily, "you think I should know". Sentence changed enough not to seem too creepy, hopefully.

"Well, then…I am not asexual. I suppose that was our main point of contention before. I just find it distasteful to make the effort of 'picking up someone', as you would say – which I am perfectly able to, people are way too easy to manipulate – for a chemical rush that is way shorter than any decent drug's. People stop liking me as soon as I stop faking, so it seems too much of a hassle to deal with the fallout. It's simple logic," the detective admitted, voice carefully even, maintaining their distance – and respecting his partner's obvious wish not to make eye contact.

John snorted at that. "Idiots." He really thought so. Sure, Sherlock could be brash and annoying and so many things – but why would anyone who was allowed to make love to him let that blind…them to what an awesome human being he was? "Wait. Does this mean that Jack, having assumed Steve was asexual, or mostly so, has left his own husband high and dry most of the time?"

His blogger sounded hesitant and a bit ashamed. Of course he would be. John prided himself in his ability as a lover. That was all too evident to anyone living with him, and unfortunately (well, unfortunately only because he was too busy pining to speak up) exposed to the infinite stretch of his very satisfied girlfriends…at least, very satisfied until the sleuth butted in their relationship in some form or another. Such self-flagellation couldn't be allowed to go on. "I'd expect you left yourself high and dry, too. Unless you think me lovable but not desirable, which would honestly puzzle me given the data I had. And since it was done out of respect, if after a wrong assumption, I would be touched. But opt to _deepen_ your deduction lessons," Sherlock replied, a smile in his voice.

John blushed and giggled. "That would be a way to train me in deductions I wouldn't mind. If we were a couple, I mean. Which neither of us wants, obviously. Though I'd never be able to reach your level, I'd make sure that both of us enjoyed our course. So you really don't mind being touched, or… propositioned, or things like that?" he asked, turning towards his companion.

The sleuth huffed. That was ridiculous. "I ask you to get things out of my pockets all the time, John. There's a limit to how oblivious a person can be, I should think. I don't enjoy being touched or accosted by idiots. By people I know will hate me in ten minutes max, or that can't take a no. When it's people I can trust, touching or…being touched is not something that I am sensitive about. I'm a human being, after all. It's just that the list of people I am wary of is longer than most people's," he snapped.

"That is…honestly, an honour," his blogger replied earnestly, finally turning to watch his friend. "But trying to stick to our homework, why wouldn't you approach me way earlier to make love more often and generally cuddle and so on? You don't tend to be shy about your needs. Is Steve supposed to be? Because you didn't give exactly this impression this morning, you know." John allowed himself a lopsided smile.

"I suppose Jack is bi, but this doesn't stop him from having a preference. Maybe Steve thinks that his desire for the male body is…well, less than his love for him. Better not to rock the boat by demanding more sex than his husband spontaneously offers. It'd spare him from hearing too many denials," the detective pondered, voice very soft.

"Well, then he's not a genius like you, if he can't see how horny for him his husband is. You'd think sleeping together he'd notice," the doctor quipped, suppressing a laugh. That was a terribly dangerous idea to put in the consulting detective's brain, true. But it was so freeing to be able to discuss it under the veil of their personas. His heart was throbbing with adrenaline. It was a bit like throwing a ball… and waiting for any kind of reaction.

"Male biology…" Sherlock started, sounding like he'd go into a rant about the inconveniences of having a body any second.

"…Can't be helped, I know. But it can definitely be urged on, and the difference should be obvious after a while," John stated. If they needed to make up a believable backstory, he couldn't let his partner hide behind his usual transport excuse – and extending it to him, too. Not after knowing that his wasn't actually a "being human is annoying", but a "Can't trust people not to turn on me afterwards" situation…which was a bit heartbreaking, to be honest.

The detective was tempted to rebuke again – why really, it wasn't like his persona being an idiot concerned him – but for once, he caught himself before starting a row. "No wonder they need a therapist. Married, and they keep assuming things wrongly, or bickering them out. Don't know each other that well, do they? Did we marry in haste?" he wondered instead.

"It wouldn't surprise me," his blogger agreed, smiling. They'd certainly rushed headlong into things. Well, not marriage, but…if that first night at Angelo's had gone differently, who knows what would have happened. "But they're not going to regret at their leisure. Not regretting it ever. So, what we were asked to figure out – expectations…I suppose that, all things considered, we can agree that they will not feel the need to stop themselves, and just indulge the urge to ask for sex, or…any other physical affection every time the whim hits. Is that okay?"

"That seems perfect," the sleuth agreed, burying himself more under the covers.

Unexpectedly, John didn't follow suit. Instead, he remarked, very quietly. "You know…Touch starvation is actually a thing. I'm not sure if doctor Reese will bring it up eventually, but he well might. I'd just always figured that that was what girlfriends were for…or boyfriends, or whatever. With you not trusting just anyone for the role…I simply wanted to say, I'm here. You don't have to concoct ridiculous excuses like getting your phone out of your own jacket. If you need to know you're not an island…if you need a pat, or a hug, or something. No need for pretences, you know?" He felt utterly daring, but it needed to be said.

The doctor scooted down and tucked himself in without waiting for a reply, prudently giving his back to his flatmate. He would probably be too awkward to acknowledge any comment to his offer, but thankfully none came. Was Sherlock already asleep? He didn't think so…but he could never be sure.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing._

They'd barely sat down for their session, the following day, when doctor Reese inquired jokingly, "So? Did you do your homework?"

That already put John in a mood – he really hoped this case was solved soon, as psychotherapists and he were clearly incompatible – so he just nodded. Sherlock – Steve, he needed to think in terms of Steve – clearly agreed with him, because he snapped, "Of course we did. What kind of idiot consults an expert and then ignores what he's been told?"

"It might sound illogical, I'll give you that, but the answer actually is way more than you'd think – and that's okay. Expected, even," the therapist replied evenly.

"Thanks for yet another confirmation that everyone is an idiot," the sleuth huffed.

Instead of letting himself be derailed (as John had been silently hoping he might), doctor Reese just smiled at them and urged, "So…?"

Christ, it was like being at Ella's all over again. She would spend the whole session prodding him to, "Share, John, it'll do you some good"…

And John would stubbornly keep mum because he hadn't yet figured out a socially acceptable way to say, "Not your fucking business, and believe me, you might think you know what you're doing, but no matter how trained you have been, you have no fucking idea of what the matter even is, so for your own good stay out of it."

"So we cleared up some misunderstandings. It appears we both were acting out of assumptions, which I am ashamed for, it's not what I usually am, but we felt so blessed to have each other that neither of us wanted to possibly pressure the other and push our luck. Now we agreed to jump each other's bones any time the whim arises. Are you happy?" Sherlock replied, crossing his arms. It looked as if he was trying to be dismissive, but coming across more confrontational.

John blushed and tried not to roll his eyes. Good to know that the sleuth's complete lack of shame had been maintained in his new persona. He idly wondered how much of the emotion his friend was displaying was fake, and how much of it was his gut reaction to the most annoying category of human beings, in the doctor's experience.

"It doesn't matter, Steve," Reese remarked evenly, "I'm not the one who needs to be happy, not today nor by the end of this therapy. The point is how all this – the discovery you were wrong in your assumptions, the new agreement, the prospect for the future – makes you both feel."

For once, the blogger decided not to just glare at a shrink. "Like an idiot," he admitted, shrugging.

"Well, at least for you it can't be a new feeling. I can't believe I was that blind," the detective grumbled. "Stupid emotions."

"Emotions drive us all…even frustrating ones like feeling unsure of the stability of a relationship. The more you want it to work, the more you're likely to go through something like this, in truth. Honestly? People like you are the ones that are the easiest to work with – I'm sure that whatever issue lays between you, we'll be able to work it out soon," the therapist encouraged them, before pointing out, "you're still sitting far apart, though. What are you leaving room for? Or who?"

Sherlock got up and in one long step he was finally sitting properly at John's side – flush with him, actually – and for good measure, one possessive arm was circling his supposed husband's waist. "There's nothing," he growled, voice the deepest his blogger had ever heard it. "We just don't need to be glued together every minute."

"Yeah, it would make things awkward when I'm examining patients otherwise," John pointed out, as usual using humour to deflect an awkward conversation. He patted himself mentally for not shivering at his flatmate suddenly unleashing enough pheromones to choke a whole block of flats.

Reese smiled at them. "Of course. It is healthy to be able to deal with a significant other's absence, even for a lengthy amount. But going out of your way to give each other space makes me wonder if your discussion yesterday bore the fruits we hoped."

"Are we supposed to give you a sex diary now, like the food diary one would write when dieting? And before you ask, no, I have literally zero body image problems – I don't care enough to worry about that. But my brother will put on weight if he so much as looks at cake, so I have learned some things, to my displeasure," the sleuth stated, raising an eyebrow.

The mere hypothesis made his blogger choke on his own saliva. If that was true, it wouldn't surprise him if their killer was a past client. Ruining the man professionally, in case he insisted to be privy to each and any intimate act of theirs, sounded like a commendable plan, actually.

"No, no, of course. Not unless you feel it would help the two of you. If you think so, you're welcome to write one…but I won't request to see it if you prefer to keep it private. But it is not a common practice or one I usually recommend," the shrink reassured them, waving the idea away.

"Then why wonder about 'the fruits'?" John challenged. "Because that seemed awfully as if you were inquiring about it."

"Because changing consolidated patterns can take time and strength. Just because you gave each other permission to be physically affectionate, it doesn't mean that you will actually be jumping each other any minute," doctor Reese explained, "I'm here to help you understand the languages of love – best to start with the one that seems more lacking, don't you think?"

The blogger shrugged, and then asked pointedly, "So, what are you suggesting?"

"Baby steps. You don't need to keep close only when someone threatens to snatch one of you away. If you want to be more comfortable with the physical side of your love, you should start small. Don't sit as far away from each other as the room allows, for one. I'm going out on a limb, but I suspect that each of you keeps to his side of the bed, too, when you're not making love," the therapist remarked, tone slightly interrogative.

John tried to offer his best poker face. They hadn't really discussed if they needed to lie about that, and while there'd definitely been touching, it had happened while they both were asleep, so it didn't count…did it? He's surprised to see Sherlock's features loudly proclaim "Guilty as charged," even without the detective having to say a word. But of course, he managed to move away before the other realised, and apparently that is consistent with the image that they need to project.

"Thought so," Reese continued, acknowledging Sherlock's silent admission. "And I'm assuming the pattern didn't change yesterday night, or I'm sure one of you would have pointed that out," he added.

Again, no answer came, but none was needed. The man was trained to read people enough to know that they would have definitely – loudly, and probably scathingly – corrected a false assumption on his part.

"Barring medical conditions making this uncomfortable for one or both of you, I have to encourage you to…and don't give me the look because of the word I'll use…cuddle, tonight. Consider it an experiment, if you wish," the shrink suggested.

Neither gave him the look, but the sleuth redirected the conversation, waving away such a proposal. If it was an "of course we will," or a, "don't be ridiculous, obviously we won't" Reese wasn't entirely sure. "You said languages of love. If I am to understand physical contact is one of them, what are the others?" the detective inquired, putting his fingers together and appearing to focus.

"Words, of course," the therapist started, counting on his fingers, "not just actual I love you, but pet names, vocal praise…"

"Oh, we have that covered," John cut in, with a snort of laughter. Was he exposing himself too much? Would Sherlock deduce how he felt, after this? But no, his friend could be amazingly oblivious sometimes. Besides, he wasn't himself at the moment. That had to count.

" _You_ have that covered. I should try to do better," the consulting detective corrected, "but please do go on, doctor Reese."

"It seems you don't believe yourself really perfect, Steve. I'm glad you are aware of your weak points. Then, of course, there's quality time…and I understand if, with both of you having demanding careers, you cannot have as much of it as you'd want," the shrink continued.

"Do cases count?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

That seemed to take the therapist aback, but John nodded solemnly. "Cases definitely count, love. You see, sometimes I consult with him – on the medical analysis of a dead body – and it might make us uncommon, but I adore seeing him at work. He's positively dazzling." He grinned.

"Well then, of course what you say goes. I'm glad work can be part of quality time, every now and then," Reese nodded. "Another language of love – one of the most commonly used – is gifts. Any kind, of course, not necessarily the expected ones – Valentine Days, anniversaries. I would say, if it's a primary language for either one of you, random ones are much more probable."

John shrugged. "I don't think that's a matter of high importance for either of us," he said, trying hard not to think of the nonchalance with which Sherlock always offered his credit card, or the time he got home with a lucky cat, despite having no wife who'd like it. It wasn't a gift for Sherlock, not exactly. Just something that would look nice on the mantelpiece, to make a pair with the skull.

"Well, not everyone puts the same importance on the same languages. What matters is to understand your partner's and fulfil what he needs. And to close the subject, the last language is acts of…I know the word can seem odd…service. Doing the chores. Cooking. Acting with consideration. Whatever requires you to actually do something for your beloved," Reese concluded.

"I hope we have that covered, both of us," Sherlock said quietly. Well, obviously John would seem the most well-versed in that language. But his years away had to count. Didn't they count? John might not be very happy about it, but he'd been acting to keep him alive. Then again, John being alive was in his own self-interest. Why were things so confusing?

Well, at least his blogger wasn't loudly objecting. "I suppose you can be like that…when you want to," he acknowledged.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I still own nothing_

As usual, they ignored the session for the rest of the day. There was simply no discussing in public things like, "I hope you like my acts of service, but if you don't pitch in, making sure the body parts for your experiments do not contaminate the fridge at least, you'll have a very pissed off partner." What if someone overheard them? John didn't want someone to call the police about 'the serial killers in the café' and need to have the local cops call Lestrade to guarantee that no, they're really not murderers.

They still did some sightseeing, even if Sherlock seemed to have less patience for it than the day before. But they'd need a bit more therapy before they were pronounced fine. And that was, with them still not confessing most of their baggage, though they might hint at it maybe…was it okay if they did? He really should see Ella more regularly…but with the Holmes brothers reading him better than she'd ever hoped to manage, it seemed a bit superfluous to see her when both the poncy gits were at hand. After all, they were both more than inclined to share their opinion of him and offer unrequested suggestions.

Still, the blogger tried to drag Sherlock all over town, and – strangely – the detective would cave in more often than not to his requests of seeing something. But then the sleuth would try to cut the visit short, because it was all boring…and to him, it certainly was, since no murder was involved. But John persevered in his completist urge to visit as many places of note as possible.

Not because he was obsessed with being – or playing – tourist. That would be silly. Simply because retiring in their room would have eventually led to the "we've been ordered to cuddle" discussion, and he honestly had no idea how he felt about that. Was it a good idea to follow doctor's orders? He was tempted to – it sounded like a truly delightful prospect. But what would Sherlock think of that? How far did his method acting principles go?

And even if his friend had no qualm indulging doctor Reese's suggestion, should John agree to it, or fight the idea tooth and nail? Could he control himself? Would the physical proximity of cuddling make the depth of his interest in Sherlock unmistakably obvious? And if the worst happened, would John be allowed to laugh it off as a trick of biology, or would the consulting detective feel betrayed and accuse him for having accepted such a fiction when he desperately wanted it to be true?

There was no way to answer these questions for sure. Maybe the consulting detective would have been able to, in John's place, deducing his companion's most likely reactions the way he could deduce what he had for lunch when he had a shift at the hospital. But John was no genius, and – even if he'd started to foresee things that happened consistently, like epic sulks out of boredom – he couldn't read the mystery of the sleuth's feelings.

There was nothing for it. They would have to go back to their room at some point – if this case managed to be the one where Sherlock didn't force himself to stay awake to completion, his blogger certainly wouldn't be the one insisting they pull an one-nighter in some place or other. And when they did, John would know the other's preference and conform to it. In case the detective wanted to keep following Reese's orders, John would (all too secretly happily) comply and hope for the best. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

It felt like they reached said bridge in the blink of an eye, even if hours had undoubtedly gone by. The cosy hotel room welcomed them back, and John's body went instinctively to parade rest. Awaiting his orders.

"Relax, John. We've not been deemed fine yet. I doubt that we're going to be attacked tonight," Sherlock quipped.

"Ah, no, it's not that…" the doctor replied, trailing off because he couldn't possibly explain what the matter was. He'd been stupid to say that at all, but it had been an automatic reaction.

Before he could fret over what the sleuth would deduce, his companion said softly, "I have a favour to ask."

Given the detective's penchant for ordering, especially when a case was involved, the premise was concerning. John just shrugged. Of course he would do it. Whether it involved what he'd been worrying over, or a plan to buy a boa and keep it in the hotel's bathroom, there was very little he was able to deny Sherlock – and the man should know it.

"I know that normally, we would just pretend as if we followed our therapist's orders. We're not really married, or in a relationship, and there's no need to cross any boundaries when we can just draw from past data to give a convincing act of us having done so. For all that our client is supposed to be observant of couple's dynamic, if what he sees matches well enough what he expected to happen, he won't doubt. People are naïve like that," the consulting detective prefaced. For someone who abhorred mentioning the obvious, he too seemed anxious to delay his request at the moment.

John nodded. Once again, no words were needed. A simple yes would have been pointless, perhaps interrupting his friend while he organised his words…and urging him to get to the damn point would be against both their moods right now.

"Fact is, I don't have enough previous data to feel like I can put on a decent act. I'm assuming 'cuddling', as our therapist called it, with a family member is somehow different from doing so with a partner. Correct me if I'm wrong," Sherlock confessed, walking through the room.

"You're not wrong," his blogger replied softly. He was about to offer to explain the difference – verbally, and as well as he could – but he shut up before undermining the realisation of his own wishes.

"Would you mind if we did, indeed, cuddle, as per doctor's orders?" the detective asked, his eyes shifting between him and the bed. "For data, in a scientific perspective."

"I did tell you yesterday that I don't mind touching you anytime you want. I'm certainly not taking that back now. The question is – would you prefer being the little spoon or the big spoon?"

The sleuth blinked. "Isn't that something you should decide, being the resident expert?"

"It's not like there's only one way to do this – otherwise our client would be out of a job pretty quickly, because the talk the parents would be giving would be enough to set one for life. Simply put: do you prefer to be the hugger or the hugged?" John quipped, not knowing what he hoped the answer would be.

"I was brought up to believe hugs were reciprocal affairs?" Sherlock said hesitantly. For all his brilliant plans to use this case to seduce John, every step of the way seemed to become more confusing than the previous one. How did anyone manage to bed a person, never mind several in the course of one's life?

His partner laughed, but not in the scornful way his acquaintances did when he showed an inadequacy. It was a warm, fond chuckle that the detective would love hearing again. For some reason, his flatmate had the most musical laugh. "Usually, yes. That's what one would expect. But our client specifically said cuddle tonight, so I assume he meant in bed. And…well, I suppose one can do anything, we can try whatever you want, obviously. I'm just saying that usually, I just nestled with my back against my then- lover's stomach in the past. Or the reverse. I'm not picky. Logistics are simple, your bedmate doesn't wake to a face full of your morning breath, and you get the perks of full-body contact. So if you agree with this option you get to choose," John explained.

The detective closed his eyes, and there was a moment of silence. If his fingertips hadn't united in a gesture his blogger knew all too well, John would have been concerned. Instead it was obvious that he was giving serious consideration to his options. It was unreal how endearing the normally acerbic man could be.

Finally, the sleuth opened his eyes and announced, "I believe that I would prefer being the hugger – at least the first time."

John nodded, smiling. They prepared for bed quickly, and then it was time to settle. John would never admit how quickly his heart was beating. Sherlock's arms seemed unsure of where exactly to settle, and his hands feather-light, as if they didn't believe they were welcomed. If he knew how far from the truth that was…it would be a disaster, probably.

The sleuth seemed to have missed the 'full body contact' part of his earlier speech, laying his arms around John but keeping a few inches between them. The doctor tried his luck. "You can scoot closer if you want," he said softly.

"Mmmm…." Sherlock mumbled, before following the suggestion. Moments, and their torsos were moulded to each other…though their bottom halves still had a small space between them. This, John was not going to protest. He needed to relax. He needed to relax. He needed to relax.

Despite (thanks to?) the detective's soft breath ruffling his hairs, what he thought would be impossible all night happened surprisingly quickly. John fell asleep. He would have liked to enjoy the sensation a good while longer.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

Waking up to someone rutting against him wasn't an entirely unknown situation for John. After all, he did have fond memories of a few friends with delightful benefits. No proper boyfriends, because he would still need to pretend – for his father's sake, mostly, but slowly it became ingrained into him – that 'messing around' was nothing serious, and no feelings were involved besides momentary lust.

For some reason, dad would flip out much worse for love, even should it be chaste, than about actual sex. "I was horny and there was a warm body next to mine," the one time he got caught messing around in the morning when a friend slept over, made his father just huff. But "I want to take Sylvie on a date," from Harry, even when it would presumably not actually involve sex, sent him in a rage.

All that was years ago, though. And even if he had discounted his own feelings for his partners at the time, and actually was more invested in them that he'd admit even to himself, his feelings were nowhere close to the constant pining (let's be honest) for his partner since John had met him. Which is why his reaction wasn't as nonchalant.

If he'd been pushing back while asleep, he suddenly went utterly still upon waking. That didn't please Sherlock, judging from the soft whine escaping him. John's brain went blank for a moment, wondering what he should do. While his body had very clear ideas about enjoying it, his superego was considering flight. John helplessly tried to weigh the chances that allowing this to go on while he was awake would upset the sleuth upon awakening, against the chances of actually waking him up by moving, and that his friend would otherwise be unaware of what happened.

Before he could arrive at either decision, Sherlock woke up, his whine turning into a somehow confused-sounding, "Jawn?" Oh fuck. If running was his best option, he'd just fucked it up.

"Morning," was all the blogger could mumble. Getting up now would be moot anyway. He prayed to be swallowed by the mattress. Even being choked to death by his pillow would be nice. He buried himself down in the bed as much as he could, hyperaware of the detective's arms around him.

What he didn't expect was one of the sleuth's long hands to react with a half-pet against his stomach. John couldn't help it: he groaned, managing only to half-strangle the throaty sound. That seemed to wake the consulting detective up entirely, and he was standing and apologising before his partner could regret the noise. He blushed, then – since Sherlock seemed to have misunderstood the situation entirely – he admitted softly, "I'm not hurt, or…upset. You just caught me by surprise. We were both sleeping until a moment ago. Things like these happen. Actually, that's why it was suggested, I believe." Forcing himself to explain the situation distracted him, thankfully. Thinking of their client helped his body settle a bit, too.

…Then Sherlock had to utter one of these breathy, "Oh," he used all too often when he figured things out, and John's body was raging again with desire in half a second. Damn.

"If sex ensuing is the reason hugging was suggested, why didn't you object?" the sleuth asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oh God. True. He was the experienced one. He was supposed to know better. Could they switch to any other question? Because the actual answer was, "I don't mind," and that was a bit too close to what he couldn't confess even without the, "just the opposite," that should have followed that sentence for the sake of complete honesty… John took the coward's way out, pointing out the obvious. "Sex doesn't _have_ _to_ ensue."

If he had the gall to look at Sherlock, he would have seen him blush brilliantly too. "Of course." A slamming door seconds later informed him that the detective had claimed first turn in the bathroom. John tried to will himself _not_ to listen in, but once again, his body had his own ideas and told his brain in no uncertain terms to kindly fuck off. All John's rapidly crumbling morals could manage was to make him clutch desperately the mattress instead of jerking off. And that only because there was no way that the world's only consulting detective wouldn't know at a glance what he'd been doing in their _shared_ bed and probably what he'd been thinking about, which would kill John.

In the meantime, the consulting detective was seriously considering drowning himself in the shower. The night before had been so lovely, settling against John's warmth, being allowed to, being _encouraged_ to. It was progress, of a sort. It was something he should have been grateful for, and _content_ with. But his damn transport just had to take the lead. This was why he didn't sleep much. Once consciousness flew out of the window, you never knew what might happen.

True, the few times he'd insisted on sharing a bed with Mycroft as a kid because of a nightmare (it was just simpler than waking up his parents) the worst that happened was his brother taking note of whatever nonsense he mumbled in his sleep – and wasn't he happy to have outgrown that issue – and mocking him mercilessly afterwards. Especially that time he dreamt that he was being chased by sparkling penguins, at seven. But he'd stopped looking for comfort much earlier than his puberty kicked into gear, so the prospect of possibly molesting John in his sleep hadn't crossed his mind at all.

For a moment, he'd thought that John was well aware of the chances of this happening and didn't mind it – not that Sherlock dared to hope his blogger would appreciate it. But the doctor had shared his bed with a number of lovers, after all…and if John wasn't disgusted, this morning's awakening was definitely something they could have progressed from. The sleuth hoped he had a real possibility of deepening their relationship…until reality set in.

Fleeing was all he could do. In the safety of the tiny bathroom, he rid himself of his pyjamas, tossing it angrily every which way, got in the shower and turned the faucet full-blast on freezing. It didn't just kill his arousal most efficiently. It was illogical, as emotions' strength didn't actually depend on heat despite the most widespread metaphors, but he wanted to numb his feelings too that way.

Stop the ball of regret, self-loathing and disappointment in his chest from leaking out. He felt dangerously close to crying at his own stupidity for indulging – hoping – how stupid did one have to be to forget that John Watson was. Not. Gay. Just because his transport had reacted to stimulation when slumbering, or even half-asleep, it didn't change his sexuality.

Sherlock blamed this case. He should never have accepted it. Probably, the police could solve it…eventually. He'd been interested since the start not by the mystery, but by the chance of wish-fulfilling playacting. He hadn't realised how masochistic that plan was. For his own sanity, he should really abandon the case. People did that all the time. Interrupt therapy because the therapist methods didn't agree with them.

…And other patients of his client would end up being murdered, before the police figured the case out. No doubt about that. His inner John Watson, aka Moral Compass, was already tutting in disappointment. "Bit not good, Sherlock, people dying because you can't compartmentalise. You're a professional. I really expected better from you."

That did it. Sherlock would never, ever willingly disappoint his conductor of light, if the alternative was at all feasible. He sighed deeply, and concluded his ablutions. He did feel more balanced now, if chilled to the bone. He rubbed himself vigorously with the bathrobe the hotel provided, which for some reason felt coarser than the previous days – or maybe his nervous system was simply misfiring, sometimes it happened when he was upset. He wanted to believe he was calm now, but his neurons seemed to have other ideas. Never mind. He could take that. He needed to get dressed soon, anyway… and his clothes were selected to be bearable in any mental state. That's why they were, as John would say, overly posh. Sadly, quality was not common.

Random thoughts helped take his mind away from the morning's failure, and he was semi-normal (or what passed for his normal, anyway) when he left the bathroom, pyjamas bundled in his hands. "Sorry about not asking if you wanted to go first," he mumbled, not looking at the bed or his partner. He received just a grunt and – from the noise – John rushed into the bathroom himself.

Things to do: get dressed. Wait in the room while John had breakfast (no matter who might be looking, he didn't feel like playing happy-ish couple now). Go for their therapy session. Remind himself they were not actually lovers through all of it. Find a way to either lure the murder out or solve this damned case quickly because he would go insane if this went on much longer.


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I continue not to own a thing._

The therapist held back a sigh, seeing his next clients come in. He'd been so sure that all they needed was a bit more openness – sometimes people, even when loving each other, had the most illogical hangups in showing it, after the actual courting phase was over. As if their partner would scold them for being too sappy instead of revelling in the continued attentions of the one they loved. Most often than not, their parents' example was to blame. Not that he should complain – he would be out of a job if all people were able to navigate a relationship on their own – but thinking he'd found the way to help and instead seeing a roadblock the size of Everest on the path was frustrating.

The couple sat down, and while they did not maintain an ample empty space between the two of them (only because he'd pointed it out the first time, he suspected) the body language in both of them was so tense that Reese hoped to God no sudden noise would break the quiet of his study. Any more stress and his clients would break – perhaps physically. There was only so much tension the human body could somatise before it rebelled.

This time, he didn't point out the obvious. They might have tried to relax consciously, but it would put them on the defensive, too, if he knew the type (and he did), which would have defeated his point entirely. The situation was worse than the first time he'd seen them, and further regression was not something he desired.

So, instead, he just asked, after the customary greetings, "And did you follow my suggestion yesterday?"

"Of course," the other doctor – now patient – assured, rather snappishly, "as we already discussed, we are able to follow directions."

"Especially basic ones," the other one sniffed, managing to look down at him despite being seated.

"And how did you feel about it? Remember, it's okay to need a while to get used to a different routine," the therapist said, hoping to get to the bottom of what brought them to this state.

"I liked it," 'Steve' mumbled, almost unintelligibly. His husband threw him a sharp, almost surprised look.

"Could you repeat that, please? And elaborate, if you can. It would be really helpful," Reese asked, doodling in his notebook, ready to take some hopefully helpful notes.

"I. Liked. It," the man repeated, enunciating with as much clarity as possible, but throwing him a dirty look for being forced to repeat himself. "Jaw…Jack is warm, and he _fits_ , and…what am I supposed to say? I'm not the mawkish one, of the two of us."

"I'm not mawkish either, if that's what you're trying to say," his partner pointed out, "but yeah, frankly, doctor Reese, I don't see what you want either. 'Could you Elaborate?' Cuddling is not some philosophical lesson. It's just…nice. And only someone more insane than we are would go on a rant about exactly which positions are good, or how pyjamas' different fabrics are likely to influence the experience, or something like that."

"And yet you just mentioned it…as if it's something you've given some thought to. It wouldn't occur to you otherwise," the therapist pointed out, with a small smile.

"I live with someone very scientifically minded, and half the time our kitchen is a makeshift lab. You can't blame me if I can readily imagine experiments about everything in the world," 'Jack' groused, folding his arms in front of him.

"There was absolutely no blame implied, and I apologise if you felt like I was judging you. But it's interesting nonetheless. Do you expect your partner to turn these 'nice' nightly cuddles into a scientific experiment?" Reese queried.

"Wouldn't be the first time he has turned me into an unwitting guinea pig," he replied, shrugging. "Though it might be the first time there would be – at least hopefully – no negative side effects."

"Just because I assumed your help in a handful of cases without making you sign a bunch of papers first, you're going to make him think that I poison you every other week?" Sherlock protested, dramatically pointing at their slightly baffled therapist.

"You did poison me; remember the Hound case?" John replied, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

"Technically, you were drugged because of leaky pipes. I didn't have a role in your delusions that time," the detective pointed out, turning away from his partner.

"Yep, but only because you'd made a mistake. You certainly did your level best to expose me to the toxin," his blogger reminded him.

"Still, that was only the once!" the sleuth whined.

"Do we really need to go through each and every time you used me in one of your experiments?" John queried, sounding exhausted.

"It was for a case, every time! You don't mind when I involve you in my work, as long as it involves chases and adrenaline. Well, guess what, sometimes to catch a criminal I need the results of an experiment first. And if I'm supposed to be taking notes of the results, I can't exactly dose myself, can I? So why are you suddenly upset when I assume you'd be willing to help serve justice any way necessary?" the detective shouted.

"Because I'm worried for you, idiot!" John blurted out, glaring.

"Uh?" was Sherlock's eloquent reaction.

"I mean, isn't it obvious, Mr. Everyone-Else-Is-An-Imbecile?" the doctor groused.

"Your partner might be very bright, but nobody is a mind reader. Spell things out for him, when you see that he cannot figure out your needs. You might be surprised by the amount of adjustments you'll find he's willing to make," the therapist reminded him.

John sighed, "Fine. I'll explain. I'll even use small words. Ex-soldier, love, remember? I had bad days. And I know how to murder people with maximum efficiency. I've been trained for it. All too often, your – necessary – experiments involve some type of drug. Half the time, you're not even sure what it does. That's why it needs testing in the first place. What if I have a flashback and attack you because I can't recognise you? What if I hurt you? What if I murder you? I mean, I know what if, I'd die too, but I'd rather not if it's all the same to you. Hence, no fucking drugs for me, especially not on the sly."

"Oh." It was the 'I just solved a case' oh, and damn if it didn't sound obscene every. Single. Time. Still, if it persuaded Sherlock to finally lay off the experiments, the awkwardness – and the quick stab of desire in John's veins – were totally worth it. "But you needn't worry, I can defend myself, I take on criminals, why would you think any drug side effect might cause a problem?" the sleuth asked.

"Oh yeah," his partner sighed, "great adjustment." He sent a look to the therapist that was a clear cry for help.

Well, doctor Reese wasn't about to abandon his patient. "Steve, have you ever tried to apprehend a criminal without hurting them?" he asked.

"No, why would I? They're already murderers, I'm not going to act kindly if it's in self-defence, that's how you wind up dead," the detective replied, looking as if he thought the other man especially dim-witted.

"And you still cannot see why there might be a difference between your daily job and dealing with your husband under a full blown flashback from his army days brought on by drugs? A situation in which he feels under attack and will do everything in his power – everything he was trained for – in order to, so he thinks, save his own life?" the therapist pointed out, speaking slowly.

"You _might_ have a point. I think we should spar! So you can teach me how to counteract your moves without hurting you, Jack," Sherlock replied enthusiastically.

"And no drugs of any kind unless I've taught you and I am actually satisfied with your preparation? No matter what case might come along before then?" John demanded, his voice commanding in a way that made the consulting detective very happy to be already sitting, as it hid his knees immediately turning to jelly.

"I suppose," Sherlock agreed, with a hint of pout. "Let's hope for the best, because if a case needing that kind of experiment comes along and you're still off limits as subject, I might have a hard time finding a proper collaborator."

Reese frowned. He was pretty sure this was not regular police procedure. Should he report it to the authorities? Then again, it appeared that only his unfortunate significant other had been a victim of the mad scientist in front of him until now, and there was the doctor-patient confidentiality issue to consider…oh damn. He might have to consult a lawyer before taking any initiative.

"You will _not_ touch any drug unsupervised," John declared, in Captain mode.

Sherlock sent him a weak glare, but didn't reply…which might be more worrying than a full blown argument. Of course, their therapist didn't yet know him well enough to realise that. So, his thought was more along the line of, 'Well, that's a relief'. Out loud, he just said, "Since our time is almost up, I'll just say I expect you to continue with the physical affection routine, outside of sex. And it would also be helpful if you wrote each other a letter about things you've, until now, expected your partner to understand without being vocal about it. We'll discuss it next time."

His patients nodded and left. Reese allowed himself a sigh. It was the first time he considered involving the police when the relationship in itself wasn't abusive. He certainly had his work cut out for him.


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing._

They were on their way to exhausting the local sights, which could become a problem. The town was wonderful, really, but how many churches and museums and random notable places could you visit to avoid talking about the fake/real (damn confusing life) relationship you were supposed to be working on? Were actually working on? This was a pretence, wasn't it? They weren't married, for one. For another, they were good friends already. They didn't need anyone to teach them anything.

Okay, discovering that Sherlock was not actually asexual had been a surprise. Gosh, John almost thought a 'welcome' surprise, but there was nothing to welcome there. His flatmate had been clear since the start that, whomever he might be interested in, he did not see John as a potential partner. They were only acting together because…honestly, who else would he ask? Sally Donovan? Not even God would manage to reconcile them, no matter how much the consulting detective pretended to behave. Molly? That would be too cruel to the poor girl. If John was confused, she'd be heartbroken and need actual counselling by the end. Greg? Unlike the doctor, he didn't have the luxury of an understanding boss in the event that he dropped everything to follow the detective, and Bristol was outside his jurisdiction.

So John it was. And the doctor was stuck walking the thin line between pretending and letting way too much slip. Which would have destroyed their relationship. And John would be broken in turn, because if there was one thing life had taught him, it was that he needed Sherlock. Sure, he might not technically be necessary to his survival, but what was the point of simply surviving? He'd already done that too long for his tastes. He had his miracle, and damn if he allowed it to go to waste!

Of course, this meant that as soon as they were back at their room (discussing therapy in public wasn't something either would do, even as a pretence), the blogger asked, "For our letters…anything in particular you want me to write?" He sat down at one of the two small desks and considered how to write his homework. Of course, he had his phone, but part of him insisted it should be done on paper…now, had he remembered to bring a notebook - the analogic version of one?

"I think you're missing the point of this exercise," the sleuth replied, choking off a laugh, "it's about what you kept quiet that you suspect I might have failed to deduce. Maybe I have not, I'll give you that – you're delightfully transparent in some ways. But not in all ways, and frankly, if I already knew the content of your letter, tomorrow's session would be even duller than it normally is."

"Yeah, but, I mean, our roles…If you don't have anything you think I should explicitly mention, do you have anything I need to keep quiet about?" the doctor insisted.

To be honest, this was the exercise that scared him most. After all, the others had a definite reward – no matter how awkward they were, he gained either interesting knowledge or cuddles. But now? He was afraid that, if he started confessing, things that should not be admitted would come out. Of course, he could edit the letter to his heart's content, but he wasn't as naïve as to think that Sherlock couldn't – or wouldn't – trace every version of it out of sheer boredom. This whole pretending to be married thing was making the mask he'd carefully worn since that first dinner at Angelo's slip. Dangerously. And not the fun kind of danger. He'd seen his partner's act too many times to trust what would be in the detective's letter. Not a fair exchange.

"Well, maybe don't mention I'm a consulting detective," the sleuth huffed. "Seriously, John, you shouldn't need me holding your hand through this task. You always tease me about being the one of us whose writing people actually want to read. Or are you admitting that your blog is awful?"

"Well, you know, there's a difference between fiction and nonfiction writing. I'm pretty decent at the second, while your style manages to be drier than sand. But I'm not sure I can come up with believable fictions to spill, while you are great at the whole improv, or better said fibbing, thing. I have no problems admitting your superiority where it's due," John remarked, shrugging.

"Then don't lie. The best fabrications have at least a kernel of truth in them anyway…I promise I won't exploit whatever you write outside of this case, if that's what has you so worried," Sherlock replied, laying down on the bed fully dressed. That at least got him a quick glare – the good doctor's instincts protesting about it, especially since they weren't completely exhausted and crashing. Honestly, there had been an awful amount of sleeping going on during this case – not that Sherlock was going to complain about it. Not with the amazing perks he'd discovered.

That, at least, seemed to inspire his partner, and the man started typing furiously on his phone. Should be and best medium be damned. He had a few choice words that were bubbling over and he'd write them. At least this gave him the chance to edit before tomorrow's session.

Of course, that was the moment the git picked to get up and go shower. Whistling, if you can believe it. Not that John really minded much being manipulated out of writer's block (more like writer's panic), but it was the principle of the thing. Especially when that added a huge number of germs to the place they were supposed to sleep in. Sure, germs they were already in contact with, but there was a reason people didn't usually sleep in their daily clothes!

At least, the annoyance kept him focused through his friend's shower, instead of falling prey to any awkwardness. John barely glanced at the other when he came back in, and the sleuth was hard to ignore in the best situations, much less slightly damp, stray droplets trailing on still flushed skin. But the blogger wasn't going to stare today, not even out of the corner of his eyes. The last thing he needed was a smug detective who noticed it and misinterpreted it. Or, worse, interpreted it correctly.

So instead he concentrated on his homework, and from the noise, Sherlock took his own phone from the side table and was preparing his letter, too. John was all too eager for a sneak peek. It would give him an advantage tomorrow, knowing what awaited him. If only his annoying partner wasn't apparently so fixated on following the therapist's instructions properly. Did they really need to comply exactly to eventually be deemed sane? Anyone stating that would be either dumb or lying through their teeth anyway, so might as well push the lie as far as possible, right?

His train of thought was interrupted by the detective saying, "I was thinking we might switch tonight, John. Not sides of the bed, of course, but positions. You being the hugger, I mean. For science."

The doctor couldn't help himself. He guffawed. "For science?" he echoed among peals of laughter.

"My knowledge is awfully lacking as you know. I cannot pretend very well when I have no data on significant segments of human behaviour. So, whenever you're finished with your composition – and honestly, I've never seen someone type so slowly even with autocomplete on – I'd appreciate if you could join me in bed," the sleuth replied.

It was the first time John had been _patronizingly_ invited to bed. Still, behind the science excuse, this was his maddening flatmate asking for cuddles, and the blogger had promised him not to deny them. His letter found a conclusion in three minutes. An equally rapid shower, and he was slipping under the covers. No, he wasn't eager. He wanted to be helpful.

Now, if only they could find a compromise position that would not end with John humping the love of his life…it didn't help that Sherlock seemed to scoot towards him and plaster himself fully against the other every time John took an inch back. Okay. He might have to accept his fate. He certainly didn't want the detective to question aloud why he wasn't complying with their therapist's directions. He would just not sleep so he would not lose control. He was used enough to missing sleep while on a case.

Besides, he had a mission. As soon as the sleuth dropped asleep, he would just…stretch…his hand out and get the other's phone. He would not fall asleep like the other day. He would not.

Truly, he didn't, but he hadn't considered the tall git's reach. Backing against him, Sherlock ended up well in the middle of the bed (if not slightly on his blogger's half). While the long arms that went with the long legs he thought way too much about still reached the side table, there was no way for John, from his position, to get around the other's body and stretch enough to grasp the phone. Not unless he pulled a muscle (and even then it was questionable) or climbed over his bedmate, and that was sure to wake anyone up.

He still tried, out of sheer stubbornness, and the only thing he achieved was that Sherlock – apparently in his sleep – snatched his arm and held onto it like a vice. Well, such reflexes explained how the man survived on cases and doing drugs before John came along to shoot whomever needed shooting.

That ruined the simple plan to 'quietly get up and pretend to go to the toilet but snatch the phone on the way', too. He tried the impossible first, afraid that the detective would awaken in case he jostled the bed by rousing. Now, it was mathematically certain that if he employed enough strength to free himself, he'd have a very alert Sherlock to deal with – and possibly in self-defence mode, being so rudely roused.

He'd better give up on his plans, and just stay still (but vigilant!) so he could appreciate the warm, firm body against him, and the soft breathing he heard, without the situation turning awkward. Hadn't he wanted to be aware longer the other night? Now there was his opportunity.

…Someone should take a photo of John, and tag it 'last famous words'. He could even become a meme, who knew.


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing._

The following day, they prepared for their session without so much as breathing too loud in the other's direction. It was starting to become a routine, this co-sleeping, and if either was worried about how they were supposed to cope once they got back home and had no excuse to fall asleep to the other's heartbeat, well. It wasn't something they would discuss right now. Especially not when they had homework to face already. One awkward conversation at a time was more than enough.

Doctor Reese smiled, welcoming them. Jack had his phone clutched in his right fist, the left hand holding his husband's. Which was progress. The therapist wasn't going to mention it, though. These kind of patients were too skittish for that. It would set them back. So instead, he asked if anyone wanted to go first reading what they'd written. He expected the former soldier to jump at the idea of getting it out of the way, since the reason his phone wasn't quietly resting in a pocket was obviously to be read from, but instead it was held in a tighter grip, if anything. The therapist wondered if keys were about to pop out.

'Steven' instead pulled his own mobile phone from his breast pocket, clicked something quickly and shrugged. "I suppose I could," he mumbled. At the others' nods, he read, "My love, it suddenly occurred to me that doctor Reese might have a point, and maybe you don't always get my meaning. So, just to clarify: every time I call you an idiot, you're still not an idiot of Andersonian proportions. In fact, compared with most human beings, you're pretty damn smart. Even when you argue with inanimate objects (which is oddly endearing by the way)."

At that, his partner's lips tugged in a smile he couldn't contain. Nobody spoke up, though, so he continued, "Also, I know I said there are no heroes, but I need to amend that statement. Because you're absolutely a hero, in the literal sense of the word, and the fact that you can be blind to your own greatness is, frankly, appalling. (And one of the reasons I call you an idiot, because honestly – it's so obvious.)" The sleuth rolled his eyes. Modesty wasn't a quality – it was lack of proper observing, which, while all too common, was still frustrating.

"And even if we have our rough patches, sorry about that by the way, I have no doubt I wouldn't survive long if you forsook me like sensible people tend to do, and no, this is not blackmail, just an assessment of the fact that you spoiled me. I'm used to having backup, both during work and to remind me ordinary things, and I'm not sure I can function in either situation anymore should you remove yourself permanently from my life. So if I ever made you feel less than entirely sure of me, as if I could walk away and not self-destruct because I'm an idiot…think again. You're not just my husband. Somehow my whole self has rearranged itself around you, and it's actually scary, but clearly I don't speak up enough if we're here, so it needed to be said," he concluded, putting his phone back.

This fiction was the best thing that ever happened to the consulting detective. He could say anything, and it would be discounted under "it's for a case" fiction alibi. True, he'd confessed to John that the best lies had some truth in them…but knowing John, his friend would probably just take "you're not an idiot of Andersonian proportions" – which, really, nobody with a brain could deny – as the kernel Sherlock had built his castle of fabrications around.

He'd just heard himself speak aloud when he realised that he should have been more careful when crafting his letter. The licence to say whatever he wanted had been too tempting, and instead of rereading and weighing every word like John seemed to be planning, he'd written it almost without thinking. Having his partner so close, and the knowledge that they were about to sleep together (in the most literal of senses) had short-circuited his prefrontal cortex.

Doctor Reese pounced – metaphorically, luckily for everyone – on his wording. "You said the change in yourself since you met John is scary. And what you implied is, indeed, concerning. Do you feel like you absolutely need to keep your partner, no matter what happens or either of you does?" he asked, his voice serious. The therapist had suspected the detective of abuse last time, but such a mentality, if true, didn't seem to fit. If it was just a way to guilt trip the other, of course, it was one more hint that the situation was indeed dire. Now, he only needed to probe to determine the truth.

"Oh, come on, you can't be serious! I mean, if you did, you would label your experiments, I'd think," John cut in, rolling his eyes.

"I _am_ serious. And I do label my experiments…mostly. Okay, forty percent of the time, maybe. And to answer you, doctor, no. I'm not a puppet that could be coerced into anything just because my husband woke on the wrong side of the bed. Also, he's not a man who would attempt emotional blackmail. I think you might have slept through the part where I said he's a bonafide hero. It doesn't mean that I haven't changed, just because I don't obey his every word. Just ask my colleagues. They were all utterly enthusiastic about Jack entering my life," Sherlock snapped.

That gained a smile from his beloved. "Okay, yes, they were. Greg even thanked me once, and I couldn't figure out why for the life of me. Honestly, I didn't think you could be much worse as a colleague. Tact is already not exactly your strongest suit," he teased.

"I didn't think you would underestimate me so much, love. I can make people quake with a sentence – and why wouldn't I when they're idiots?" the consulting detective replied, sitting straighter and looking like a particularly smug peacock.

That puzzled doctor Reese even more. Abusers, in his experience, didn't confess to enjoying other people's discomfort openly. They usually pretended to be the most virtuous people in existence. Maybe this man was really just a deeply frustrating individual. How he had managed to land one husband was, frankly, the question niggling at his brain. But the therapist was supposed to help them, not imply that one's choice was crazy.

The blond's only answer was an irrepressible giggle, and eventually – once he regained his breath – "I should have known better. I apologise, love. You can be as fearsome as the fiercest dragon."

Okay, so it wasn't an unwise choice on one side. They were both slightly unhinged, if the reveal of a somewhat sadistic streak only elicited that. Good thing that his job was to help them function as a couple, not to psychoanalyse one or, God forbid, both. The therapist had a hunch that he wasn't paid enough for that. He repressed a sigh. "I'm glad to hear that you trust your partner so much, Steven, and that he would never play on whatever influence he has on you. I would like to know, though – is there anything he insists on that you aren't comfortable with?"

"That's…well, not so much something he insists I do – his requests are surprisingly modest, considering how much everyone else in my life always insisted I should change – " the detective replied, shrugging, "but something he insists on doing. I know I hurt him severely in the past – believe me, I would give anything to be able to undo it, especially what happened when I was…under pressure from some criminal who thought targeting me was funny. He says he's forgiven me. But he will still bring it up sometimes, and I really don't know how to earn his pardon anymore. Actually, can I add a postscript to my letter? I wasn't playing hide and seek."

His partner didn't say a word, but his face darkened, and he bit his lips. He clearly needed some encouragement. "Jack?" the therapist said, "You're allowed to reply, you know. If you need help letting go of this – or even if you don't want to – well, honesty is still a better option. And that is why I'm here, after all. To help you process things."

"Thank you but no, thanks. You have a point, this might need to be talked about, but…apologies, but it's really no business of yours. Not at first, at least. I didn't think I was hurting him. I'll try talking it out tonight. In privacy. If we can't figure it out, maybe, tomorrow we can ask for help. If it's okay, I mean," the doctor huffed. Body language said he was about ready to run away.

"Or you could do that, of course," doctor Reese conceded. "I just want to help you both, not intrude. Solving this by yourselves would be an important step. Communication is important exactly for this reason – it allows you to face things, instead of letting them fester. I will be happy to hear how you're progressing next time."


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. A quick thank you so much for reviewing to m, I'm glad you liked the last chapter, and to skylar, I so hope you're still alive! ;D A message to all readers, though. I always update as quickly as I can. On any given day, you can be sure I'm writing bits of two different stories, and often more. Asking for an update won't make it come quicker, but it could make it come later than I intended. Not because I'm a jerk, but because my Muse reacts to pressure by freezing like a deer in headlights. I wish it wasn't so, believe me. But I have to work with the psyche I have._

The therapist discreetly checked the time. He had calculated things well, there would be time to deal with Jack's letter too. He was used to dealing with all kind of couples, but he felt like he wasn't prepared to deal with these two. Most of the time, it was easy to identify behavioural patterns and see where they needed to be steered. But these two…every time either one opened his mouth, he was forced to reconsider what he understood of their relationship. Never mind. He was determined to help them, despite how difficult they made it for him.

"It wouldn't be fair to address only Steven's concerns though, so would you share your letter with us too, Jack" doctor Reese asked.

"I suppose," the man replied, "though it feels silly after what I've just heard. So, well, sorry in advance, but I'm not much good at these kind of things."

"What kind of things? Speaking up? Expressing your needs? Or something else?" the shrink said.

"Typing," Sherlock laughed, "and why don't hotels offer a complimentary notepad in the room anymore, anyway? Do they truly believe that everyone who likes pen and paper is dead already? Because I live with evidence to the contrary."

Reese reminded himself that he shouldn't glare or snap at a client before checking how their other half was taking the thing first, but damn, this one was making it so tempting!

Thankfully, the other man only snorted, and admitted, "Pretty much everything you both said. But you know, it's just typical of him – going on a completely unrelated rant when he suspects there's something he might not want to listen to. Or do."

"Well, he's going to listen now. If he's serious about this therapy at least. Of course, you both can interrupt it at any time, but then your problems would still exist. This is not a joke, Mr. Stephen, and I'll have to ask you not to treat it like one," the therapist said.

"Yes, yes, of course. I can deduce most of what goes through Jack's head anyway, but hearing it will make for a nice change of pace. Go on, love. I'll behave," Sherlock promised, waving away the shrink's concerns.

John sighed, and started to read. "My precious, what am I supposed to say that I don't get to tell you every other day? This might sound silly, but 'listen to me you berk!' Without a referee in the middle, you know. You have no idea how disheartening it is when the person you love barely notices if you're in the house or not. Carrying on conversations in absentia is not on, because no matter how well you know me, I would like to actually be able to contribute to the conversation and, you know, be aware of it. If you cannot bother with that, why should I even be here? I could run away, and you would still have your mind palace me to entertain you. Sometimes I think you would only notice if I left you for good if Mrs. Hudson decided to not help you out with chores anymore…which isn't that probable, I know. I'm waiting for the day you will realise – _again_ – that you're better off without me. And I know I won't have any evidence to persuade you to stay."

"Honestly, of all the nonsense come out with since I met you – and as clever as you are, you do spectacularly blunder sometimes – this is the worst. But it's forgivable, because you cannot observe what happens abroad, or inside my mind, so assumptions were all you had to go on. I apologise. If my behaviour wasn't enough to clue you into what I would consider obvious, or worse, made you deduce the opposite of what I meant, I cannot really blame anyone but myself. Perhaps we do indeed speak different languages, of a sort," his lover retorted. With every word he seemed to deflate, shoulders drooping and voice softening.

"Yeah, well, after what _you_ wrote it is rather evident. Not that it surprises me that I've been blind – more so that you think it's not my fault. You not expecting people to read minds?" John teased, squeezing the other's hand.

"Of course not. That's my brother's job. Even I cannot go that far, unless the mind is so simple it barely deserves the noun. Like Donovan's, for example," the detective replied, with a half-smile.

"And who would Donovan be?" the therapist intervened. He was pleased about the results – they were both confronting the issue rationally, and it was by now obvious that each one had some serious abandonment issues, oddly. One would think that marriage would have been enough to rid them both of such troubles, and assure them that they were in for the long haul. But whatever happened in the past had clearly marked them both.

"Oh, just a colleague. We would have a better working relationship if I didn't need to do her job in addition to my own on a semi-regular basis. You'd think I would be the one frustrated about it, but no. I like the work. She's the one who resents me for solving cases in her stead. People are completely irrational, aren't they?" the pretend policeman answered, the hand not holding onto John waving her away as unimportant.

Doctor Reese nodded, reminding himself firmly that they only had one hour a day, and that he was there to heal his client's marriage, not the whole of his relationships with other people. He wondered idly if the man had been deeply isolated, to be so oblivious to easily foreseeable human reactions. Then stopped himself again. Psychoanalysis required more time that he really wanted to spend with these particular clients, and wasn't even his own specialization. "Back to the matter at hand, then. Let's put aside for a moment the events of your time abroad, since you have already planned to discuss it privately. But your partner mentioned that you don't involve him in conversations – and expect him to know about them? That is quite illogical of you, don't you think?"

Sherlock pouted. "Maybe. But I don't do it to frustrate him. it's just…I know him. it's not that difficult to deduce his opinion about some small matter, especially if we're speaking about his lack of objection – he is perhaps too indulgent with me. And he reads me so well – I cannot count the number of times he has anticipated what I needed – that it's hard not to expect him to do it all the time," he explained, shrugging.

"Are you saying I'm too good at taking care of you?" John replied incredulously. "No, never mind, don't answer that…okay, even if you can deduce that I won't veto something – and I would still like to have a chance to state my opinion myself, by the way – that's not the worst. Forgive me the repetition, I know you hate it, but…it's the 'being so little solid or noticeable to you that there is no difference between my actual self and what you imagine I would say or do' that is, well, I'm not sure if it's humbling or mortifying."

"No no no, you are completely mistaken!" the detective stopped holding hands with his partner, to throw them both in the air. "You aren't unnoticeable at all. Yes, I regularly have conversations with you in my mind, and yes, the you in my mind is a perfect likeness of the actual you – of course it is, I don't know how you think I would settle for anything less – but it's not because you don't matter to me. If anything, it's the exact opposite."

"Taking a breath might help you, Stephen. Now, would you explain to us – calmly – how your partner is wrong? Your behaviour does send mixed messages, of a sort," the therapist intervened, leaning towards them.

"And here I thought you had worked with people in love before," the sleuth muttered, glaring at him. Instead of explaining, though, he ordered sternly, "Stop breathing!"

"Wha-?" doctor Reese blurted out, not even capable of ending one syllable out of sheer shock. He'd seen many patients, but none said anything so outrageous.

"Stop. Breathing," the other man insisted.

At that, John rose from the sofa, holding a hand out to the shrink. "Let's just go out, and leave him to his tantrum." He turned to his partner and said, "Seriously, I've heard a lot of things from you, honey, but this goes beyond the pale."

"No. Stay, both of you. How am I supposed to explain otherwise?" Sherlock replied, immediately mellowing.

"Oh, I don't know – in any way that makes sense, maybe?" the blond replied, sitting back down and raising an eyebrow at him.

"All I asked was for you to stop breathing – and that's boring, you know. In, out, in, out, all the time. Acknowledged as mind-numbing, even. But since neither of you trained for it in sporting competition, you're behaving as if I asked you to lop your head off. Even if you gave into my whim, it wouldn't be more than a handful of seconds before you ignored my command. And I'm not expecting anything else. In fact, people regularly use oxygen tanks in situations where they can't breathe – even if it might technically not contain exactly the same composition as air – and nobody sees anything wrong with that," the detective ranted.

"Well, of course, boring or not – you'd die otherwise," the therapist points out, trying to wrap his mind around someone that apparently considers breathing a mind-numbing chore. He kept having to adjust his diagnosis, and that was frustrating. Was the man…no, he didn't have any other symptoms. Not to his knowledge, at least.

"Sure, anyone would. And therefore – why am I expected to tolerate J- Jack's absence for hours on end? Without even making use of his mind palace likeness? Above all, in which universe does this mean I consider him unimportant? Is air unimportant just because it's transparent?" Sherlock snapped.

John grinned. "You madman. You absolute, ridiculous, romantic madman," he quipped.

Even Reese smiled. "I'm glad we clarified this, at least, I hope you will be able to discuss the other issue…and I would be happy to hear the results tomorrow."


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing._

John had never wanted to follow doctor Reese's instructions less. For a supposed fake therapy, they were supposed to speak about uncomfortable subjects for real. Couldn't their killer kindly deem them healed already and attempt to murder them? Honestly, he wouldn't even complain too much if their mysterious serial killer actually managed to kill them. It would be better than facing Sherlock's…hiatus.

Yeah, hiatus worked. After all, anatomy used the word for the holes in the human body, mostly allowing for the passage of nerves or blood vessels. During that best-forgotten (even if he'd never managed it and never would) time, he had indeed felt as if he'd been dropped into an empty universe. Yet, somehow, Sherlock had slithered through it and came back the other way, connecting what would have otherwise been the disjointed, lifeless pieces of his existence.

They didn't have the heart to play tourist that day, or even eat – neither of them. Normally, John would push to make sure they had the energy to face whatever might come, but as it was, he was feeling nauseous, too. They came straight back to the hotel from their appointment, and holed up in their room, the doctor taking the time to lock the door. Just because he would be looking forward to being interrupted by a murderer, it didn't mean that he wanted to risk a cleaning lady or another guest coming in and finding themselves in the midst of…well, whatever would happen next. Once done, he flopped on his side of the bed.

Sherlock, instead, was prowling around the room. He reminded his blogger of these downright insane wolves you saw in the worst of zoos. John was tempted to tell him to calm down, but given what they had to do, if walking until he made himself dizzy was his friend's way of coping, who was he to argue?

"We don't have to actually talk about it," John said, "not if you don't feel like it. I mean, we can tell him we did, and it's all fine, and…we're not actually doing therapy. Not us."

"But you want to. That's why you ensured we had privacy. To be honest, I do, too. I was serious, before. I want to be forgiven, John. I don't know what it'll take, because clearly saying sorry didn't work. Just…just tell me what would make you let it go." Sherlock stilled in front of him, and threw his arms open in defeat.

"I have forgiven you. I…just the fact that you came back is more than I'd ever hoped for. I mean, it feels ungrateful to complain. But…I know we just ignored everything until now. But – why? I mean, not why you didn't tell me you were alive, I am not as trustworthy as others, fine. Well, not fine, but you picked people in the know strictly on a need to know basis, and maybe I didn't need to know – not for your plan to work. What I need to know is, why did faking your own death ever look like a good plan? How can I know that you won't do it again the next time an interesting criminal comes around?" John stumbled over his words, looking intently at the carpet at the right of the detective's posh shoes.

"You can't," the detective said.

John's eyes shot up at him, and he looked as if he'd been slapped. Before he could reply, the other continued, "In the same circumstances, I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat."

The former soldier squared his shoulders, and tried to get the hurt away from his expression. Don't give the bastard the satisfaction, since he obviously didn't care. "Well, that's something I needed to hear, I suppose," he said, voce low and bitter.

"You asked why," the sleuth reminded him quietly.

"Yeah, well, it's rather obvious now," John retorted, wishing the other would just step away so he could leave. Or at least open the window. It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

"That's what I thought, but you still asked. So maybe Reese has a point about things not being as patent as we think. Moriarty had _snipers_ , John –" Sherlock replied, a hand gesturing around him as if they were still there to be pointed at.

"Yeah, I know. I was there at the pool, remember? I know he liked his guns," the blogger snapped.

"And _I_ wasn't speaking in general terms. Moriarty had snipers on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you. With the order to shoot unless I died, as spectacularly as possible. Thankfully, that meant I could literally give them a show and they'd retreat. But if word came out that I was alive before Moriarty's web was destroyed…well, he killed himself in front of me, but he was just the type to leave standing orders – and the money to cover them – to ensure you died if I resurfaced." The detective had never been happier for English having lost the second person singular a few centuries ago. John's mind would supply that he cared about all of them, while only one person had been his motivation – his priority. The man in front of him.

"Fuck!" the doctor exclaimed. "Is that why you wouldn't let me know? Not just that I'm a terrible actor, but that a slip up in acting would get Mrs. Hudson killed, maybe at Tesco or during her weekly burraco night with Mrs. Turner? Why the everloving fuck didn't you tell me months ago?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't think it was important. I still hurt you."

"Yeah, but not for a game. Not because Moriarty was so bloody brilliant that having me around would only slow you down and ruin the fun. That's quite the difference. If you told me, and I messed up without meaning to, just because I wanted to come to back you up, and Mrs. Hudson died because I was an idiot….well, I've enough people I failed to save as it is. Her death being my fault…I don't think there are enough therapists in England for me to deal with that," John admitted. She was family. And the therapists he could afford were shit at helping people through grief. The only reason he hadn't gone completely insane was that Sherlock was resurrected. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have had the chance.

"Ruin the _fun_?" the sleuth hissed. "Do you honestly think these two years were fun?"

"Well, normally I'd say no, but I've seen you ecstatic about serial killers, and I don't have any details, do I?" It was the blogger's turn to shrug.

Before his friend's…absence, he would have sworn that he knew what Sherlock would and would not do. Sure, the detective's code of behaviour might be…unusual, and he surely needed some steering here and there to interact with ordinary people, but his heart was in the right place. Despite Donovan's hissed warnings, John would never believe that his best friend would destroy a person's life intentionally. He thought he'd been proven wrong since, in the worst way possible, and knowing he'd never been – that Sherlock had done that to protect them, the same way he'd casually destroyed Molly's relationship with 'Jim from IT' to be _kind_ , pulverised a boulder he had no idea he'd been carrying on his chest even after his return, all this time. (Lie. He knew perfectly well it was there, but it felt almost sacrilegious, and yet he couldn't free himself of it.) Still, even with his knowledge of the consulting detective restored, he couldn't say why his jaunt against Moriarty's men wouldn't be fun. The man was married to his work, for crying out loud! Didn't cases count as dates?

Sherlock plopped down to sit on the carpet, as if all his energy had suddenly fizzled out. "The planning genius had just shot his brain out in front of me, John. What was left was a seemingly infinite web of violent thugs, mafiosi, traffickers of basically everything under the sun, and generally people who specialized in one type of crime, and even then they might need some extra guidance to pull off a faultless felony. These people were so dull and boring I wanted to cry when I was lucky."

Something in the wording set all kind of alarms off in John's brain. It could seem like a harmless quip, but… "And when you weren't lucky?" he asked softly.

The detective shrugged. "It wasn't a holiday."

John held out his hand. "Come up here. Whether you want to speak about this or not – and that's your choice, not Reese's or mine – you can do that in bed."

"It's barely after lunch," Sherlock pointed out, ignoring the offer.

"And we're both fasting and stressed. I found it in an article about writer's block. Just lay in bed, and your brain will be tricked into relaxing. Whether it gets the words to flow or not, it can't hurt. I'm already halfway there. Just lay beside me. We don't have to touch, or do anything you don't feel like," the blogger retorted.

"Just to prove you wrong," the sleuth said, finally taking the hand to rise. As if that suggestion would work. Were most people's brains really so pitiful?

John patted the mattress beside him, and the detective circumnavigated the bed to lie on top of the covers. He stared at the ceiling. He was right. This wasn't soothing at all.


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Thank you to the anonymous guest who gave me a chance because they liked a completely different Destiel fake relationship story! I am so glad you're enjoying this one, too!_

Sherlock almost jolted when John's fingers sought his own. True, there had been a lot of public handholding these days, to keep up their married persona. Also, part and parcel of the good doctor's instincts was the compulsion to soothe and comfort, as much as patch up and heal. But his appeasing routine usually entailed telegraphing one's moves. As much as they had no respect for each other's personal space if the situation required it – or could be fabricated to require it, by rooting in one's pockets for something, for example – this kind of casual touch, almost as if John himself was unaware he was doing it, sent a thrill through the detective's spine.

His blogger squeezed, and then kept holding his hand, saying softly, "Breathe. You don't need to tell me, but – if there's any way I can help, please ask."

"The need for a surgeon is long past. They did everything they could. And you – helped already, back then. More than you could by being there," the sleuth replied, just as sotto voce.

John's stomach churned at the other's word choice. Need for a _surgeon,_ not a doctor or a backup or a reminder of meals. "Allow me to doubt that. Or you have a very poor opinion of me, if you think your mind palace version is more useful than I can be."

"No, no, again – you don't understand. You say I don't listen to you, but did you, earlier? It's not that you wouldn't have made a brilliant partner, with your ample skillset – that's part of what made me ask you to come along on cases, in the first place. But statistically speaking, even if we pooled our talents together, it's unlikely that we could have destroyed a web as widespread as Moriarty's without a few…complications along the way. As it was, I could retire inside my mind palace, visit you, and ignore my transport until the opportunity to escape presented itself. If one of my errors had led to us both being captured…no. Just no. Don't make me go there," Sherlock murmured. He turned partially away from the other, body curling on itself…but he didn't let go of John's hand, even if the resulting position was awkward.

"It's okay," the doctor whispered back, squeezing his hand again, "you're safe now. You don't have to remember." If he understood one thing, it was trauma and not wanting to poke at it any more than one's subconscious forced you to.

Sherlock snorted. When would John figure out that what made him nauseous now was the mere prospect of his…of _John_ being hurt as he'd been, more than the actual memories? "I _know_ I'm safe. There's a distinct lack of chains, leaking pipes, and concrete walls. I'm not completely out of touch with reality yet."

It was probably a very bad idea on all accounts, but John was working on autopilot then. He mumbled, "Get in touch with _this_ ," and manoeuvred them so they were – once again – cuddling, his stomach against the sleuth's back, their still joined hands resting on Sherlock's middle. He managed to stop himself before kissing the other's nape, no matter how tempting it was. That'd be way more than a bit not good to spring on someone.

The detective uttered an odd sound – a mix between a sigh and a yelp, but not angry or scared, just stunned. One his blogger really shouldn't find so charming, because there was no way he'd hear it again.

"Sorry, I just – I am not going to let you go. Well, not literally, of course, but…you get me, don't you? And yeah, I'll – of course I'll disappear if you kick me out of your life. But please, don't." John was pretty sure he was raving, but he was unable to force himself to make sense.

"Honestly, John. I. Came. Back. For. You," Sherlock syllabled. It was easier when he didn't have to look at him.

"Oh." That was…that couldn't be right, surely? His career, his family, Mrs. Hudson, _London_ – someone who knew every back alley and roadwork as deeply as the Tomtom-doubling detective had to love the city, surely – there were plenty of reasons for his friend to come back. Besides, what else could he do?

As usual, the other read his mind. He sighed and said, "You are aware that people move and change names sometimes, aren't you? Frankly, just the chance to be miles away from Mycroft's meddling would have been sufficient motivation to snatch the perfect opportunity I was given…if I hadn't hoped that you would welcome me back." Instinctively, he pressed more against his friend.

"And I was a right arsehole instead." The blogger wanted to facepalm, but not enough to move.

"You had every right." Sherlock shrugged minutely.

"No…yes…I mean, I could be angry, but I shouldn't have. Taken it out on you like that. And you should have bloody stopped me. You've subdued enough suspects that I know you're capable of that – or at least of putting up enough of a resistance that would make me stop for the second needed to think about what the fuck I was doing." Oh my God, he was ranting again. Might as well press on. "Will you promise me? That you will – that if someday I try to – to get _physical_ again, no matter the reason, no matter what, you'll slap some sense into me instead of playing martyr? Because I _need_ that. Just like you need someone yelling at you to keep the samples in proper containers before you accidentally contaminate the food and send everyone to the hospital. Same principle."

"That's…I hadn't thought of it like that. I thought…you needed the release," the sleuth mumbled. And when had their conversation started to sound like a continuous badly scripted double entendre?

"Nope. Christ, you needed a surgeon sometime during that…and I…well, maybe you were right. You're always fucking right. I was better for you when I wasn't there, at least I couldn't hurt you. That's something. If you won't stop me if I… _mess up_ again, I'll have to go, for everyone's sanity – and safety – and I don't want to fucking go, so –"

 _That_ made Sherlock turn around in his embrace, and glare daggers at him. "Don't you _dare_! I promise, I will, whatever, I'll stop you, I'll beat you right back, but you're not allowed to leave Baker Street, do you hear me?"

John giggled because he felt dangerously close to sobbing instead. This therapy was going to do him in, unless they managed to solve the case…oh, about three days ago. "England would fall?" he asked.

The detective shook his head. "At the very least, all of Europe." Because he would break apart, which meant Mycroft would need to keep a much closer eye on him, so he would have to stop supervising politicians as closely…and let's be honest, you couldn't slacken the reins on these people for a week before they somehow caused some disaster or another. With as long as Mycroft would have to prioritise him – another war could easily start…God, he was exhausted. How could he be exhausted? It's not like he'd fought a murderer, or trekked miles while shadowing a suspect. "What do you say about getting under the covers and sleeping? Or do you want to go in search of food?"

"Nope, a nap sounds delightful. I blame the heat – leaves you dazed. It might not be Afghanistan, but it's still more than I'd like," John said. True, they would have to move and change (and let go of each other, damn) – couldn't exactly sleep in their normal clothes – but a rest would distract him from his confusing, maddening feelings. He suspected Sherlock's reasoning was the same – and any rest he got during a case was a win anyway. Far be from him to dissuade his friend!

He disentangled himself from the other, and started shucking his clothes, throwing them on the floor by the side of their bed. He winced, training insisting that this was not how it was done, but the earlier he could go back to curling up with Sherlock, the better.

The detective was doing the same anyway – and that's how John saw them. The scars. He sucked in a loud breath. It was a thing to know that he'd been captured, and entirely another to _see_.

"Sorry, I'm an idiot. Usually I'm much more careful, but…I thought you would be busy yourself, and I could sneak under the covers before you turned around," the sleuth mumbled, looking intently at the sheets.

"Look at me. Sherlock, _look_ _at me_." John considered taking his arm to nudge him to turn, but he decided against it. Not now. "Please," he said instead.

Sherlock did…and there was no disappointment, spite, or anger, in his blogger's eyes. Surprised, he let his gaze trail, inevitably landing on the other man's mangled shoulder.

His friend smiled at him. "Exactly," he said, shrugging his wounded shoulder. "I know…well, not torture, but I know war. I'm like this because Murray was there to evac me when I went down, bless him. You went to war alone, and seriously, if I wasn't an option, I'll need to have _words_ with Mycroft, I bet he had a couple of operatives he could spare. Because you don't go to war on your own, you madman. At the very least another man for back up and a med officer…or a doctor with a good aim. He's supposed to be the sensible one!"

"There wasn't much sense to spare in anyone back then, it seems," the consulting detective admitted. Mycroft had tried to force a squad on him, but he wouldn't – he couldn't trust strangers with John's life. But he couldn't confess it…not yet. Especially if it made John annoyed with his maddening sibling.

"Well, you know I'm itching to check that they've at least worked properly on you, exactly like you probably want to examine and/or experiment on me, but I get it – you would probably hate it. If we're still up for that nap…what about skin to skin cuddling? Or are you sensitive still? It's supposed to heighten serotonin production, which is never a bad idea," John said.

"I…" Sherlock wanted to ask 'are you sure you don't mind?' but his blogger never offered what he didn't feel up to. So instead, he just replied, "Yes." How bad could it be after all?


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing_

Sherlock was startled awake by what felt like a minor earthquake. The resulting, loud yelp was mortifying - he should know better, just...

"Christ, sorry love," John blurted out, somewhere way too far behind him.

Was he staying in character? Surely he was. He hadn't thought that the good doctor would be so capable at dissembling.

"I woke up ravenous, and like the idiot I am, all I was thinking about was finding food somewhere," John explained. Only partially false. He woke up ravenous for more than one thing, and his main objective was to fucking remove himself before his partner woke up to a cock rubbing itself shamelessly against a backside entirely too lovely for anyone's good. At least Sherlock's anxious awakening had shamed it into subsiding. He should have known not to do anything rash when he was so entwined with the man. Slow and gentle, Watson. What's wrong with you? (Everything. Pretty much everything.)

The detective's head buried deeper into the pillow. Why would a measly thing like food get in the way, when... "I was having a wonderful dream," he mumbled. True, the details were hazy – as one would expect waking up panicked – but he needed only a tad of effort to recapture the wonderful feeling he'd been bathing in. He was pretty sure that was – love, only not the hungry, melancholic, envious version of it he was used to. Speaking of hungry...

Sherlock's stomach gurgled loudly enough to be heard through the covers, and he blushed. This was all John's fault! A single missed meal wouldn't have registered before, but his partner's insistence on getting some food into him every few hours, even if it was only a few biscuits or a packet of crisps, had obviously ruined his transport. Now it expected to be catered to all the bloody time! John's giggle was adorable, though. Oh damn.

"It seems as if I'm not the only one who's hungry. Do you want to come along, or should I get something and bring it back to you, your majesty?"

Decisions, decisions...dressing and leaving and undoubtedly giving up the chance for more cuddling should he be able to persuade John that a Roman-style lunch laying down was a brillant idea. Or – allowing John to go out and literally leave him behind. Nope, not happening. He'd been without John long enough. "Coming," he said, stretching and getting out of bed. Once again not caring who might get an eyeful. That talking things out idea seemed like a nightmare, but the results weren't so bad.

They dressed side by side, which would have been a problem for John if guilt hadn't quite effectively murdered his libido minutes ago. They ended up asking the receptionist to suggest a nice Italian place, because – as John admitted breezily, "I kinda miss being home". Angelo's had been their go-to cheer up food after many a difficult day, mostly because it always came with an extra of kindness and caring. Of course this owner wasn't indebted to the sleuth, so there would be no reason to expect the same – but the doctor hoped that, unless the service was absolutely dismal, the taste could trick them into feeling better all the same. After facing such demons, and with no 'whatever Mrs. Hudson accidentally made too much of expressly to feed them up' option, this was the best idea he had.

The woman at the reception – a different one from the one who welcomed them – smiled, winked and suggested a place, pointing out, "I don't know Italian, but a friend told me it had Kiss in the name."

John smiled back at her – for once, knowing that their lovers ploy was working was great news – and asked, "Shall we, then?" to his partner.

The detective nodded. His blogger's intentions were obvious, and he was grateful for them. Even if he doubted that a nap and ravioli could really do much for being forced to unearth the past – and now having to lock it back, damnit, even if he didn't have to relive every detail his brain still hated having needed to prod it.

John's plan worked even better than he expected, because – besides the yummy food – they found another owner who liked to fuss at how cute a couple they made. Neither of them protested, of course; and the blogger felt slightly guilty about all the grumbling he'd countered their favourite restaurant owner's enthusiasm with. But the truth needed to be upheld - and back home, they weren't together. And wasn't that a pity.

At least they didn't need to try too hard to pretend to be a couple. Sherlock stole bites from his plate with as much nonchalance and even more frequency than any girlfriend he ever had. And John didn't have to control himself and could stare at him with as much ardency as he liked.

When the waiter asked if they wanted dessert, the detective replied that they'd share one, with a conspiratorial look to the man that would have worried John for a second if they were really together…only to scold himself when the man came back. The doctor doubted that it could be termed 'one helping' anywhere in Europe. He had no doubt the bill would be in line with Sherlock's request, though. After knowing Angelo and his family for a while, he wouldn't be surprised if it was a frustrated cook's way to ensure they both had enough to properly enjoy the fruit of his art.

After their early dinner, they wordlessly agreed on a long, wandering stroll, both unwilling to face the room where something so draining had happened. Sherlock toyed privately with the idea of leaving that hotel and finding another room, allowing them to have a fresh start. They certainly had the funds for it. But in case their murderer kept tabs on doctor Reese's patients, such flightiness could have unnerved him (statistically, it was a him). Maybe even made him decide that they wouldn't stick around long enough to become worthy prey. Going to all this trouble only for the killer they were baiting to get bored of them would be something more than simply a failure – it would be humiliating.

They let chance guide them, pausing sometimes for any interesting sight, or even just to deduce other passersby. Still, at one point John grumbled, "It's 3 am, and our next session with Reese is in the morning. Do you mind if we go back to our room? You might be able to avoid sleeping on cases for as long as you please, but I'd rather not look like death warmed over, and naps don't really help with that. If only because it might raise more questions."

God, he was sick of questions. Why did the man have to be so nosy? And when would they be considered healed? This wasn't even about his PTSD, it was about the fact that they bickered as a couple. More or less. The therapist was milking them for money, wasn't he? John hoped that the solution to this case proved boring. Maybe that would make Sherlock decide to actually charge their client.

If the grimace accompanying the sleuth's, "Sure," was any indication, his argument was powerful. Despite being tired (well, John at least – he really had never fully adapted to a random sleep cycle), they power walked back to the hotel.

John didn't ask questions, he was in and out of the bathroom and inside the bed in a flash. Sherlock, though, stopped just inside the door and seemed to be staring. Nobody had broken in, had they? John thought he wouldn't have missed the signs of _that_ , but the other's stillness was mildly concerning. "Everything okay? What's the problem?" he asked.

"Nothing. I…I just…doesn't matter." The detective shrugged.

"It matters to me. You should know that by now." His blogger put a hand on his arm.

"It's my brain. Sometimes it can be a curse. I was suddenly hit by the fact that I've told you everything about…back then, and things I want to seal deep down seem to be clinging to the sheets. I mean, they don't, obviously, and I know it's illogical, I apologise, I'll just…" Sherlock's words came quicker and quicker, until John's hand squeezed.

"How can I help?"

"I'll have to do some… mind palace remodelling, before I can actually fall asleep. Otherwise, well. You know. So really, not much for you to do," the sleuth replied.

"But? I know when there's a but coming," John prodded gently.

"We're not at Baker Street, and a strange place – well, remodelling works better when I feel safe, so – you only need to be there, really. Which you would anyway, because you have no other place to be, so…" Once again, Sherlock's words trickled to an end.

"Let's try reversing things," the other said. "You've been hugging me lately. Let me hug you this time. We might have to take up even more of the bed than we usually would, but, I was thinking – if we can manage to have your head on my chest without ruining your spine, maybe my heart will keep you calm." Yes, he was grasping at ideas he'd stolen from paediatrics articles, but who said it wouldn't work?

"Of course! If anything was wrong, I'd pick it up from your heartbeat. Brilliant, John!"

Well, it wasn't what he'd meant, but he wasn't going to complain. It required some extra adjustment, yes. But Sherlock in his arms, seeking him for comfort and not for 'homework' or pretence, made him feel absurdly proud.


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. First of all, thank you so very much for the kind Readandreview, who reminded me to erase the bloody 'no chapter sorry' notices from the story. I'll be honest. I was just afraid that if my readers didn't see the chapter number go up, they'd assume nothing happened and not read it. As if you all could remember the chapter count after two months. *I* didn't. XD Yep, I'm a complete idiot, and I apologise deeply to any new readers who have been inconvenienced by this. So, now, the chapter count has actually gone *back*, but here's a new chapter, albeit a small one…and more apologies. I've been bitten by a Nanowrimo plot bunny. A big, hungry bunny…and I've learned not to fight the Muse. She always wins. So, there will be no November chapter (this was written in October but late because real life sucks)…and considering the bunny, most probably no December chapter, either. ^^''' I promise to be back in the new year with this plot, though. This case will be solved, if it's the last thing I do!_

Reese smiled, seeing the couple come in and cuddle in front of him. Stephen slouched, his head leaning on his partner's shoulder, despite their height difference. Their hands were entwined, too, and he noticed Jack squeezed his partner's before they so much as greeted him. Progress. So much progress, in so little time. "So…I assume that you did talk," he said.

"You could say that," Jack replied, smiling back.

"Do you want to share anything?" the therapist asked.

"No, not really." Stephen's voice was half-choked.

"Let's say that…there were things I was afraid to know. Things he would rather not remember. So, well, it all kind of slotted together perfectly…only it left our doubts to fester. Thank you, doctor, because I don't think we would ever have talked about this in our lives if left to ourselves," the blond said. "Believe me, you don't want to have the details."

"Not if you're not a psychopath yourself," his partner groused.

He'd thought that some gentle prodding might help them, but that last line shut doctor Reese's mouth before he could say anything. Things his patient would rather not remember…his patient who was in law enforcement…psychopaths…nope. Even if the man had opened up to his husband, and thank God for that, there was no way that airing this with him would help. It might even set him back. The big secret wasn't that one time that one of them strayed and had a fling. There were other therapists, better suited to deal with that kind of trauma. And they had private sessions. He would definitely suggest that his client continue with one of them, but pushing now was out of the question.

Reese's hands went up, in a half-placating, half-surrendering gesture. "Your story is your own…and you decide who to share it with. Though I'm thinking some more counselling – private counselling – might not be off the mark. So I'll just ask – do you feel more confident in your relationship, with no more secrets hanging between you? Or is there anything else that needs to be sorted out in your couple dynamic? This is why I'm here, after all."

Stephen snorted, "Can't you observe?"

His partner giggled. "Now, now, love. The doctor is trying to be helpful here." He ruffled his husband's hair.

"Well, what more does he want? I do hope he's not going to ask us to show him we understand all the five languages of love, because some of them might be awkward to do here." Stephen straightened suddenly, glaring.

" _I_ don't want anything. If you're happy with where you are in this relationship, I certainly don't mean to keep you here or make you uncomfortable in any way. I'm just asking to make sure that there isn't anything else you might want to talk about. Often, my patients have a laundry list, so to speak, of matters they feel could improve if discussed in the presence of an uninvolved 'arbiter' of sorts," Reese explained, voice soft.

"If yesterday meant anything, no, we don't have any more grievances." Gosh, how did the double entendre get out of him? John was getting too good at this pretending thing. After all the trouble he went through at home, to remind himself that no, Sherlock and he weren't an item, and the sleuth didn't want him – this case would trick his brain into slipping. What if he accidentally flirted with him again? Hopefully Sherlock would think he was just an idiot.

Sherlock who was, at the moment, blushing a brilliant scarlet. Out of character for him. Let's hope that the doctor didn't think it was an 'issue' which needed addressing.

But no, their therapist pronounced the much sought-after words. "If you're sure, I look forward to…not seeing you anymore. Of course, should you encounter further trouble, you know where I am. But I believe that if you keep in mind that communication is necessary, your love will overcome anything life might choose to throw at you."

His patients grinned like children, Jack thanking him quickly before they both bounded out of the room. Reese remained blissfully unaware that such enthusiasm was caused by the hope of finally being able to bait a serial killer. Despite having requested the famous Sherlock Holmes' help, such a mindset would have him terribly concerned.

Just in case their killer didn't keep updated as he should, Sherlock decided to kiss John right in the therapist's lounge, which they had to walk through on their way out. Full on permanently dry lips. In fact, they lingered until a cough and at least three different couples' glares chased them away. He had faith that his countrymen's upbringing wouldn't make such relatively public displays too common. That a new couple was…even excessively reconciled would hopefully get to their murderer.

In fact, if it wasn't for John's gentle nudging (the man was always way too aware of context and propriety, for the sleuth's taste) the kiss might have lasted until that annoying need to breathe made itself non negligible anymore.

They'd just left the therapist's, when his blogger said, "Wow! That was…"

Since he couldn't seem to find the word, Sherlock finished for him. "A bit not good?"

"Nope. Not at all. It was…well, all kinds of good. And certainly useful for our plans, but – seriously, I'm more and more baffled by the fact that you'd been consistently single when we met." Almost said 'since we met'. They needed to assume a killer was spying on them all the time. It wasn't true, but it would ensure they didn't mess up if he _was_.

"Well, people don't like most things I'm capable of doing with my mouth," the sleuth quipped.

"Their loss." John shrugged, and his fingers went to enlace with his partner's. He was getting too used to this. "Though I'm starting to get your behaviour. If you didn't piss people off on purpose, you'd have to beat them away with a stick."

"Your talent as a fiction writer improves every day," Sherlock remarked, winking at him.

John sighed deeply. "And here I thought that we'd worked through 'words of affirmation' already. All the words of affirmation in the bloody dictionary, too. But if you think I'm not dead serious clearly I've been remiss in my duty, love."

"Maybe I just need something different to be convinced," the detective quipped.

"As ever, happy to provide," his beloved assured him…and licked his lips.


	16. Chapter 16

This is not an update. This isn't even an apology, because I realise that no amount of apologies is going to change things or make you less angry. This is your authorization to come at me with pitchfork, virtual or otherwise. Because the problem is I've managed to one-up writer's block. I know writer's block. One story won't work, but this means I can write all the others. What I got is…writer's constipation, I guess. When one story is blocked, and yet it refuses to let your brain concentrate on anything else. At this point, I'm not making any promises. Just weeping in a corner.


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